Sleight of Hands
by Icy Mike Molson
Summary: When the Gangrel mercenary K.T. Corben is called to New York City to investigate the deadly, elusive Black Hand, everything that can go wrong, does go wrong. Now all he wants is to escape the heart of the Sabbat's power in the New World with his life...
1. Sleight of Hands, Part One

**I**

The smell of refineries and gas lingered on the chill wind of October as it blew in off of the Raritan Bay, whipping in harsh gusts through the seemingly abandoned New Jersey shipping center of Perth Amboy. Pools of light shone at irregular intervals through the skeletal trees that lined the streets of the lower middle class neighborhood, shielding the houses from the harsh sodium illumination. The houses seemed to drink in the yellow lights where the paint peeled away from the old wooden structures, casting deep shadows across the porches and tiny front yards of the properties.

Stalking through the pools of light was a single figure, shrouded in a long, brown knee length duster. Long blond hair, tied back in a ponytail, hung down over the collar, drawn up from a narrow face marred by stubble. Cold gray eyes watched the houses around him as he made his way through the streets, alert for any signs of danger. Though the temperature was close to freezing, not a single cloud of steam escaped the man's mouth or nose; it seemed as though he did not breathe at all. He was a vampire, the ultimate predator of humankind, but on this night humankind was the last thing on the predator's mind. On this night, and in this decaying suburb that stood on the fringes of New Jersey's shipping power, he was to meet with others of his kind, members of the dreaded sect of bloody vampires known as the Sabbat.

During his younger days, when he had belonged to the structured, law abiding society of vampires known as the Camarilla, he had heard of the Sabbat. The elders of the Camarilla depicted the Sabbat as their greatest enemies, bloodthirsty killers bent on murdering their fellow vampires for their blood and the strength their blood possessed. The Camarilla stood for law, order, stability, and secrecy, while the brutal, tactless Sabbat spread chaos, anarchy, and suffering in their wake. So many princes and elders had assured him of the Sabbat's brutality and deceit. _Turn your back for only a moment_, his elders had told him, _and you'll be assured of a stake through your heart_.

Fifty years ago, he had bought into what the elders had told him. He was young then, impressionable, new to the whole ideal of the so called Kindred, the undead descendents of the biblical Caine. He had blindly taken the Camarilla at face value and accepted them as the good guys, and the Sabbat had become his most hated enemies. Now, however, he had seen too much. He had seen the Sabbat's brutality and callous treatment of mortals, their violent assaults on the Camarilla, but he had also seen his elders stab each other in the back, striving for dominance with devious plans that sank them to the same level as their bloodthirsty enemies. Finally, disgusted with the Camarilla's posing and posturing while they strove to undermine and subdue each other, he had left everything behind. Now, he worked both sides of the war, without a care as to who would win their ages old conflict. If he was going to be used, he would be well paid for the trouble.

And that had brought him to this cold New Jersey street late in October.

He looked down at the letter again, and read the contents over one last time. The note had arrived only a few days ago, finding him in southern Georgia just hours after he received payment from the Camarilla prince of Savannah. Written in painfully neat handwriting, it had come from a bishop, a middle ranking member of the Sabbat hierarchy. That seemed odd enough; although he had worked for the Sabbat on a few occasions, his jobs had typically been limited to front line assaults during the Sabbat's sieges against Camarilla held cities or work on the fringes of Sabbat control. Few bishops would be willing to call in an outside force, at any rate; the Sabbat tended to rely on no one but themselves, making only a rare few exceptions when the need became great. Here, on the outskirts of New York City, he had no idea what to expect from a bishop that operated within one of the most powerful Sabbat strongholds in the New World. On most of the occasions that he had been hired by the Sabbat, he was left wondering if the Sabbat that had hired him had ever mentioned the presence of an outside mercenary to their superiors. In the end, it had never mattered, as long as he was paid in favors and money at the end of the job.

He looked up from the letter in time to see someone step out of the shadows of a nearby house, followed quickly by a second man. They both were dressed in long black overcoats covering what looked like expensive suits underneath. The smaller of the two men appeared to be unarmed, but his companion, remaining a step behind him, was obviously carrying some kind of weapon underneath his black wool coat. His hand dropped down under his own duster, freeing his Ruger Redhawk from the holster belted on his left side. Before he could draw his weapon, the first of the two newcomers held up a hand.

"K.T. Corben," the man stated. He was a murderously thin man, with short, spiky black hair and sharp blue eyes. He smiled as he looked K.T. over, showing a measure of approval. "I thought you'd be taller. I can assure you, you have no need of your gun right now."

"You're the one that sent for me?" K.T. asked, glancing past the speaker to his companion. The larger man stood back from the conversation slightly, his dark eyes darting around the streets as he smoothed out his ponytail of brown hair. The smaller, black haired man nodded in reply to the question. "Who are you?"

"My name is Cameron Stokes," the man replied. "I am bishop of the Flatiron and Garment Districts in New York. Now, I know you must be wondering what I could possibly want with a mercenary like you."

"The question has crossed my mind," K.T. confirmed, glancing around him for signs of an ambush. While he had worked for the Sabbat on occasion, anyone that even knew the mercenary probably knew him from his exploits in fighting against the Sabbat, and several of those would have no problem luring him into an ambush.

"Still on edge," Cameron noted, a smile on his face. "Good. You'll need to be alert for what I want you to do."

"And what would that be?" K.T. asked evenly. The mercenary held up Cameron's letter. "I don't normally respond to vague letters like these, but your messenger said you were willing to pay almost any price."

"Let's take a walk," Cameron said, already turning and starting in through a row of derelict but still inhabited houses. K.T. hesitated for a moment, glancing back to Stokes' bodyguard, but the man was watching the streets once more instead of the mercenary. Finally, K.T. turned and followed the bishop, catching up quickly to the Sabbat. K.T. glanced over at Cameron, and noticed the slightest hint of unease in the bishop's eyes and posture. Finally, Cameron returned his attention to the mercenary. "About a week ago, some of the Loyalists in the Flatiron District came upon a most startling communiqué between two members of the Black Hand. They sent this missive, along with their suspicions of what was going on, to a man they trusted, a Nosferatu _antitribu_ bishop named Halsey. Three days later, Halsey's remains were found on the banks of the Hudson River. Two days after that, two of the five Loyalists involved also turned up, both murdered. The other three are either in hiding right now, or they've also been extinguished. I cannot be certain which."

"And you want me to find these last three Loyalists," K.T. assumed.

"No," Cameron countered. "I want you to infiltrate the Black Hand."

"You're joking," K.T. stated, stopping dead in his tracks. What little he knew about the secretive and murderous Black Hand was that they were an elite militia of fanatical assassins and soldiers that even their Sabbat superiors were hesitant to call upon. The Black Hand, as far as K.T. knew, was comprised of some of the most deadly vampires on the face of the earth. Cameron stopped, waiting for the mercenary to resume his pace. "The Black Hand doesn't just take people in. The few that they do take are put through ridiculous tests of loyalty, ones that I'm guaranteed not to pass. Besides, you know I'm not even Sabbat."

"But you're not Camarilla, either," Cameron countered. "Hell, you don't even live in New York. You're an independent Gangrel mercenary that few have heard of and fewer still care about. Even if you didn't use an alias, there is most likely no one that would recognize your name, much less your face. It will be simple to set you up as a member of a nomadic pack member who was the last survivor of a Lupine attack upstate. And, trust me, the Lupine attack is good cover. It really did happen, and one blond haired Gangrel _antitribu_ did happen to make it out alive."

"Use him then," K.T. said. The mercenary had only been involved in a handful of encounters with the Lupines, or, as most people would call them, werewolves. Those few encounters had been harrowing, lethal experiences; the werewolves in their nine foot tall half man, half wolf forms were devastatingly lethal, and only the most powerful and deadly vampires could hope to stand up against a Lupine in close combat. "Anyone who can survive a Lupine attack like that must be good."

"Alas, that poor Gangrel is no longer with us," Cameron explained. "While this Gangrel was, as you say, fairly good, he despised the Loyalist cause. Distasteful as it sounds, I need someone sympathetic to the Loyalists, considering that this investigation is based upon their findings. Of course, since I could find no one both competent and sympathetic to those rabble, I had to settle for someone who would be indifferent. Which brings us to you, Mister Corben, and your willingness to work for the right price."

"Before we go any further, why don't you explain to me just what the hell a Loyalist is, and why it would appear to be open season on them," K.T. requested. Cameron smiled.

"The Loyalists are the ones who think our leadership is becoming stale, stagnant, and just like the rigid hierarchy of the Camarilla," the bishop said. "They are prone to open acts of rebellion against set rules and orders. Of course, the Ventrue _antitribu_ dreamt up this idea. They thought that the current leadership is corrupting the freedoms that the Sabbat was founded upon. I simply see it as another ludicrous ploy by the Ventrue _antitribu_, but right now I have no other options than to deal with them." 

"Oh, this is getting even better," K.T. grumbled. He had worked with one or two of the Ventrue _antitribu_ before, and had been thoroughly unimpressed by them on the whole. While the Ventrue of the Camarilla were the leaders, lawmakers, and fairly strict disciplinarians and businessmen, their anti-clan was a group of reckless, rebellious thrill seekers that reminded him more of rich, spoiled teenagers than vampires. Cameron saw his disgusted expression, and chuckled a little.

"Do not concern yourself with them," the bishop stated. "In all likelihood, you will not have to even contact the Ventrue _antitribu_ of this city. Your primary concerns should be the Assamite and Gangrel _antitribu_ that compose the majority of the Black Hand."

"A comforting thought," K.T. remarked sarcastically. The Assamites, _antitribu_ or otherwise, were the most vicious and cold blooded assassins of the vampiric world, and the Gangrel of the Sabbat could often match their Assamite comrades in brutality if not effectiveness. "How many people know about this little plan of yours?"

"The Black Hand must at least have an idea about the communiqué," Cameron replied. "But they don't know about me. Which means they won't know about you, either. I can get you into the Hand within the next few days. I have some, how shall we say, friends who have been more than charitable in helping me with this endeavor. They will be able to provide you with information and assistance once you're on the inside. And I'd like to keep it just between you, me, and my other associates."

"What other associates?" K.T. inquired. Cameron smiled.

"You'll meet them tomorrow," the bishop replied.

"This does not sound favorable for me," K.T. stated. "If these Loyalists never came to you about this communiqué, how do you know all of this?"

"When one bishop receives word of a plot within the Black Hand, the first thing he wants to do is find someone to back him up," Cameron replied. "Halsey came to me only a night before his death. And, before you ask, it was a secure meeting. No one even knew about it, much less overheard our conversation."

"Somehow, that doesn't comfort me," K.T. said.

"Comforted or not, will you take the job?" Cameron asked. A sudden gust of wind arose, shaking the bare branches of the tree above them. K.T. noticed Cameron's hand drop slightly to his belt, where an automatic pistol was tucked into his waistline. He was doing a good job of hiding it, but K.T. could tell that his potential employer was afraid. That was not the best omen of a job to come.

"What are you offering me for this service?" K.T. inquired, although he was fairly certain that he would not take the offer no matter what reward the Lasombra offered.

"What would you like for this service?" Cameron asked in reply, a slight smile rising to his face. K.T. hesitated for a moment; never in forty plus years as a mercenary had anyone started off by asking what he thought the price should be.

"Fifteen million dollars, plus expenses," K.T. started, deciding to push the limits of his employer. "A mortal retainer for blood purposes, preferably young and in extremely good health. I also want a new Triumph motorcycle, and a boon from you."

"How much of a boon?" Cameron inquired, not even batting an eyelash at the already steep price.

"I'll decide exactly how much of a favor you owe me once I infiltrate the Hand," K.T. answered. "And I want free passage through your territories once this job is done."

"Is that all?" Cameron inquired. K.T. could hardly keep the surprise from his face. "I assure you, Mister Corben, you will get whatever you ask. You may think that I am giving in easily, but I know that this will not be a simple job. And, should you prove that something is going on within the Hand, my reward will be far greater than any material gains you may take from me."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I still don't think I'll be taking the job," K.T. stated.

"I told you, anything you ask for, you will receive," Cameron said, keeping all but the faintest elements of desperation from his voice. "I need you, Corben. Whatever you want is yours for the taking."

"Which means that this is suicide," K.T. pointed out.

"It is not suicide," Cameron countered. "This sect means a lot to me. If something is going on to destroy it from within, I would give up all I have to see it stopped. At least meet me tomorrow night. You'll be able to meet the rest of this little conspiracy, and you can decide if you want the job. And, as added incentive, you will receive two thousand dollars for simply showing up and offering any input you may have on the situation."

"Two thousand dollars," K.T. repeated. "Just to show up."

"Two thousand dollars, just for showing up," Cameron agreed. He handed the mercenary a slip of paper. "I'll meet you tomorrow night at this address. Be there. It will be worth your while."

"I'm already counting the minutes," K.T. grumbled, finally relenting. He had no intentions of taking the job, but what could really happen in one night? Cameron smiled, then started to walk back to his bodyguard. K.T. unfolded the paper and looked over the address. Cameron's apartment was located on Van Brunt Street. Which, to the mercenary's recollection, was only in one of the worst sections of Brooklyn.

"Well," K.T. said to the night air as he started back into Perth Amboy, "at least it's not in the Bronx."

**II**

The Red Hook of Brooklyn, so far as K.T. could tell, was divided into two distinct sections; bad and worse. Van Brunt Street, only a quarter of a mile from New York Harbor, was most likely situated in the latter part. The few street lights that still worked illuminated a dismal landscape of cratered streets running between rows of dilapidated mounds of decaying brick that were passed off as low rent housing by the City of New York. Only the lowest members of Brooklyn society were found in these filthy, crumbling buildings. He could feel the eyes of those people watching him as he scanned the blackened buildings and barred windows for any signs of their presence. A harsh wind blew in off of the waterfront, catching the mercenary's duster as he walked forward, allowing vague glimpses of the long hunting knife and huge revolver that he wore beneath his coat. Finally, after making his way through neighborhoods that not even the police would enter after dark, K.T. made it to the ruined tenement that Stokes had designated as the meeting place for "the rest of the little conspiracy". The mercenary pushed his way in through the front door, walking into a dimly lit, once white hallway that led to the rear of the building. A pair of junkies, too high on their drugs of choice to notice or care about the newcomer to their building, sprawled across the hallway, but a cursory glance revealed nothing more than the two derelicts. Slowly, the Gangrel started up the creaking stairs to the third floor, then padded silently down the filthy hallway to Stokes' apartment.

As he reached apartment 314, K.T. stopped and looked around carefully. From the looks of it, someone had forced the door open; the pristine dead bolt on the door had ripped through the rotting wooden frame, and now the door stood slightly ajar. K.T. hesitated a moment, but then drew his Ruger and slowly pushed the door open. 

The Gangrel's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the living room quickly, and K.T. made a rapid scan of the apartment. It hardly appeared to be the kind of place that a Sabbat bishop would call home; the paint was peeling off of the walls in several places, and what paint remained had been stained a brownish gray by years of dust and dirt. A ratty couch, a battered card table, and an oddly out of place, brand new television were the only furnishings in the room. Slowly the Gangrel made his way through the living room, looking for any sign of Stokes or his bodyguard from the night before.

He found Stokes, or at least what was left of the bishop, in the entrance to a greasy, dirt blackened kitchen. Two bodies lay on the floor in the entrance of the tiny kitchen, and a small amount of blood stained the already dirty linoleum tile. The heads of the two men were nowhere to be found, but the mercenary did not have to think too long on the identities of the newly deceased. Ignoring the bodies for a moment, K.T. stood up and looked back into the living room, but there was no sign of the assassin in the apartment. Carefully, expecting an ambush at any moment, he made his way into the kitchen, and gently kicked the smaller of the two corpses onto its stomach with the toe of his boot. He leaned down and pulled a thick wallet out of the body's back pocket.

"So where's the rest of your little conspiracy, Stokes?" K.T. inquired quietly of the body as he started to open the wallet. The sound of the door slamming shut suddenly stopped him in mid motion.

"K.T. Corben, mercenary Gangrel," someone said in an even, threatening voice. K.T. turned quickly, his left hand putting the wallet into a pocket and his right hand bringing his Ruger up to face the new threat. The newcomer was a young, brown haired man who looked to be no older than twenty, his brown eyes glinting with a maniacal gleam in the dim light of the apartment. As the newcomer advanced into the room, K.T. got a good look at the sawed off, double barreled shotgun in his right hand and the bloodstained machete in his left. "The Old Man of the Mountain has ordered your death! Your crimes will not go unpunished, I promise you that much!"

"Sorry, I don't think you have the right guy," K.T. said, glancing around quickly and trying to find a way out. If what the man said about the Old Man of the Mountain was true, he was an Assamite, the most feared assassins in vampire society. A fairly psychotic assassin, K.T. thought to himself, but a good one nonetheless. With his employer already dead, K.T. had no desire or reason to face off against such a deadly opponent. "You got Stokes, you don't need me. See you around."

"You dare to doubt my judgment?!" the assassin roared. He lifted the shotgun and fired, but there was no report as the assassin called upon his knowledge of the discipline of quietus to blanket the battle in a pall of unnatural silence.

K.T. ducked under the first blast of the shotgun and rolled out of the way of the second, firing off balance as he ended up six feet closer to the window that offered his best exit from the apartment. The assassin threw his shotgun aside and drew a Skorpion submachinegun from his heavy leather jacket, spraying the living room and forcing the mercenary back into the center of the apartment. K.T. fired again as he rolled back behind the old couch, barely avoiding a new burst of fire as the assassin's bullets tore through the furniture only an inch or two over his head. K.T. pushed himself back against the wall and let his third round go straight through the couch, all the shooting held eerily silent by the assassin's discipline of quietus. Without any audible assurance that he had hit his target, K.T. jumped up and rushed again for the window, channeling his blood fuel his own vampiric powers. Using his skill at the discipline of celerity to augment his speed to supernatural levels, the Gangrel streaked across the living room at three times the speed of a normal human, aiming for the window that offered his escape. Despite his phenomenal speed, the assassin still managed to hit him twice in the leg as he dove through the glass pane. He landed against the fire escape railing with a thud, and rolled out of the way only a second before the assassin reached the window and fired out. Half jumping and half falling down to the second floor landing, K.T. leapt to the street below even as his attacker climbed out onto the fire escape and poured a torrent of bullets down on the fleeing Gangrel. Dodging the rain of lead and chancing one last shot over his shoulder, the Gangrel turned a corner, pushed into a derelict bodega, and hurried through the narrow aisle to the rear of the store. The storekeeper, sweeping up the rear of his shop, looked up in shock at his newest customer. K.T. grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and put his huge revolver to the shopkeeper's head.

"You got a back way out?" he asked quickly, glancing to the front of the store.

"T-through that d-door," the storekeeper answered, gesturing with one shaking hand to the store room. K.T. hurried through the store room and out the back door, into a narrow alley littered with garbage and bums. Without another second to lose the Gangrel found his way out to the main street and raced up a flight of steps to a train platform. Glancing behind him, he could see no sign of the assassin.

"Mother fucker," K.T. said, taking a second to look at the mostly healed bullet holes in his leg. He put a finger through one of the holes in his jeans, then looked back to the ground. Still no sign of the assassin. He pulled the wallet out of his pocket, and flipped it open. Inside were several large bills, five different driver's licenses with Cameron's picture on them, several credit cards for a number of different people, and a small slip of paper. He looked up as he heard the train coming, and started down the platform towards it. "What a night. Never again do I ever come to New York."

He caught slight movement out of the corner of his eye. The mercenary dove to the ground only a second before the assassin sprayed everything at waist height on the platform from his vantage point at the steps. K.T. rolled onto his back and fired his last two rounds, one catching the killer square in the chest and knocking him back two steps. K.T. whipped open the cylinder and knocked the shells out of his gun with a single lightning move, and drew a speed loader from a pocket high on his duster. The train would be here in a second; the assassin was regaining his balance and bringing his gun to bear again. He hoped he would have time to reload completely; he jammed the speed loader into the cylinders, snapped the barrel shut, and fired just as he was hit in the side with several rounds, bowling him over. He saw the assassin drop to one knee as well, but K.T.'s shot was high and to the left of the heart, and the Assamite was quickly recovering. The train stopped at the platform, and the doors opened up. K.T. dove in just before more machinegun fire raked across the platform. He glanced out and saw his opponent jumping in. Then he dove back out, the doors almost closing on his coat as it flew out behind him, and vaulted over the side of the platform, more than willing to take the fifteen foot drop over more slugs in his back. Quickly he bolted around another corner, and jumped out in front of a cab just turning onto the street from the opposite side of the intersection. The driver slammed on his brakes, but was too close to the mercenary to avoid a collision. K.T. rolled up and across the hood, dropping back to the ground on the driver's side of the taxi.

"Jesus Christ, you dumbfuck!" the cabby shouted, leaning out of the window. K.T. rounded the car to his window quickly.

"Good," he said, some pain evident in his voice. "You're open."

"Yeah, I'm open," the cabby said, still a bit angry. "You always hail cabs by jumping on the fucking hood?"

"I'm in a hurry," K.T. replied simply. Quickly he got into the cab and sank as low into the seat as he could without appearing suspicious. The taxi sat in the middle of the street for a long moment.

"Well, where to, if you're in such a hurry?" the cabby finally asked, growing impatient with his customer.

"I'll tell you once we're moving," K.T. answered curtly. He threw one last glance over his shoulder, through the rear window of the cab, but there was no sign of the assassin. The mercenary could only hope that the killer had been trapped on the train. "Just drive."

"Okay," the cabby said, simply shrugging his shoulders and turning on the meter. Silently, K.T. thanked God that he had gotten an English-speaking driver. After settling back for a moment and using his blood to heal the last of his injuries, the Gangrel took out Cameron's wallet, and took out the slip of paper. All he could make out for the moment on the slip of paper was Eighteenth Street. The Gangrel was about to hold the paper up, trying to get a better source of light in the back of the dark cab, when the driver spoke up again.

"So, you decided where you want to go yet?" the cabby asked, watching the rear view mirror as he tried to size up the mercenary.

"Eighteenth Street, Manhattan," the Gangrel replied, still looking over his shoulder for any sign of the assassin. Maybe he could find the "rest of the little conspiracy" there. If nothing else, it would get him out of Brooklyn before his would-be assassin could catch up with him.

"That's quite a distance, bud," the driver said. "It's gonna cost ya."

"Trust me, you'll get your money," K.T. said. "Now drive."

"Yeah, yeah," the driver said, starting up Van Brunt Street towards Hamilton Avenue. K.T. finally started to relax as the cab turned onto Hamilton and eventually entered the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel. By the time they reached Manhattan, the mercenary was no longer throwing constant glances over his shoulder to search for any possible followers.

"So what's on Eighteenth Street?" the cabby asked as he started through Manhattan traffic.

"None of your business," K.T. replied curtly, taking one last look behind him.

"Hey, I'm just trying to make some small talk," the cabby said. "What? You just get into a fight with your woman or something?"

"If I wanted to talk to someone, I'd have gone to a psychiatrist," K.T. said shortly. "Just get me to Eighteenth Street."

"Alright, alright," the cabby said. They drove the next twelve blocks or so in silence. Finally, the cabby pulled over to a curb.

"Eighteenth Street," he informed the Gangrel brusquely. "That'll be forty-five bucks."

"Keep the change," K.T. said, handing a fifty and a twenty to the driver. "And you never dropped me off here."

"Don't even know who you are," the cabby said, quickly pocketing the money and setting the meter to zero again. K.T. started along the street, looking up at the tall buildings and apartments around him, and took out Cameron's wallet.

K.T. opened up the slip of paper one final time, and looked over the addresses on it in the illumination of a nearby streetlight. There were five addresses on the paper now, he could tell; three were crossed out. The two remaining were an E. Blackwell, located somewhere on Eighteenth Street, and a J. Bonifay, located a bit farther north on Twenty-fourth Street. After a long moment of deliberation, the Gangrel started along the street, checking street numbers to make certain that he was heading in the right direction, looking for the home of E. Blackwell.

Under normal circumstances, K.T. would never be following up on these addresses. Given his choice of options, the mercenary would have already been back in New Jersey, taking his old Indian motorcycle out of the storage bin where it waited, and heading away from the city with all due speed. However, he was faced with a very distinct problem; he was being pursued either by an Assamite, or by someone who wanted nothing more in the world than to be an Assamite. The Assamites were known the world over as feared assassins, and were known never to give up on their mark until one of the two was dead. Even the Assamite _antitribu_, those that had broken away from the majority of their Middle Eastern clan, were vicious killers with a reputation to uphold. K.T.'s assassin already knew his name and his profession, had known where and when to wait for him, and had declared that the Old Man of the Mountain, the Assamite clan's fabled leader, had sanctioned the mercenary's death. That meant that, at the very least, K.T. had to find and kill this assassin, or, at worst, was going to have to consider fading out of existence for a few decades. While he had no idea what to expect from the apparently psychotic killer, maybe this E. Blackwell did. If things worked out, Blackwell was another member of Cameron's little conspiracy, and would be able to fill the Gangrel in on what was happening in New York.

K.T. was so wrapped up in his thoughts and in looking for an assassin in every shadow that he almost passed E. Blackwell's address without noticing. The Gangrel came to a stop along the sidewalk, and looked up at the gray concrete building in front of him. It was a well maintained, upper middle class building for Manhattan, certainly a step above the preferred havens of the front line Sabbat thugs of the city. His mood lifting the slightest bit, K.T. pushed his way through the revolving glass doors of the building and strode through the lobby, ignoring the slightly stunned and disapproving looks of a pair of yuppies talking near the elevator. The mercenary flashed them a cold smile as he noticed their stares, and the pair quickly started out of the building. Finally, the elevator returned to the ground floor, and K.T. stepped into the cab.

The ninth floor of the apartment building was fairly quiet as K.T. walked out of the elevator and made his way along the charcoal colored carpet to apartment 921. As he reached the door, the Gangrel hesitated for a moment, and listened for any sounds from the interior. All that he could make out was a television playing the news inside. K.T. pushed his duster away from the holster on the left side of his belt, and knocked lightly on the door.

Before the door could open more than a crack, K.T. pushed into the apartment, snagging the front of the occupant's black dress before she could back away from her intruder. The mercenary kicked the door shut even as he slammed his captive into the nearest wall, bringing his Ruger to bear with his free right hand. The young woman that he had captured tried to break free of his iron grasp until the mercenary planted the monstrous weapon in the center of her forehead. Her light brown eyes turned first to the barrel of the huge revolver resting just below the bangs of her shoulder length blond hair, then to the wielder of the weapon. She looked to be no older than twenty, a little under five and a half feet tall, and had a thin, slightly athletic build. As he appraised the young woman, whatever lift K.T.'s mood had taken on the ground floor dropped back to its original low levels. He had expected to find an established member of the Sabbat in this apartment, not the well dressed young socialite he had captured.

"Leave," the young woman ordered, glaring into K.T.'s eyes. The attempt at using the vampiric discipline of domination failed miserably; K.T.'s blood was more potent than the girl's, negating any chance she might have ever had of breaking the mercenary's will.

"No," K.T. answered. The girl's eyes showed the first signs of panic. While her attempt to use a vampiric power revealed her as a vampire, her complete inability to dominate the mercenary meant that she was most likely young and inexperienced, and certainly not a leader of the Sabbat. "Are you Blackwell?" the mercenary asked, praying that the girl was only a member of Blackwell's progeny.

"Who the fuck are you?" the girl demanded, a mixture of hatred and fear in her voice.

"You answer my question, and maybe I'll consider answering yours," K.T. stated evenly.

"Yeah, I am," the girl replied. "So what's it to you?"

"You speak pretty boldly for one so close to Final Death," K.T. snarled. Already part of him was cursing the horrible luck that was plaguing him so far through the night. "You know Cameron Stokes?"

"What? I don't know who you're talking about," Blackwell retorted. K.T. cocked the hammer of the Ruger.

"Oh, I think you do," he said. "Think hard, Sabbat. Think real hard, before I blow your brains out onto the wall behind you."

"I'm telling you, I don't know who he is!" Blackwell exclaimed, fear starting to edge her voice. Considering how frightened she seemed to be of Final Death, she could not have been a Sabbat for long, maybe a year or so. He grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed her face into the doorframe, then tossed her to the ground. Blackwell tried to stumble to her feet, but K.T. swept her feet out from under her, dropping her flat on her back. By the time she could recover, K.T. was on her again, discarding the Ruger in favor of the long hunting knife that he now held to her throat.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" she exclaimed. "I don't know any Stokes, alright?"

"He's a Sabbat bishop," K.T. said, leaning in over her. The blade of his knife brushed across the skin of her throat, just barely drawing blood. "Am I jogging your memory yet?"

"I'm telling you, I don't know him!" Blackwell exclaimed, trying to back away from her attacker. K.T. stood slightly, giving him enough leverage to launch a vicious kick that threw the girl back into the wall. He was on her again as she tried to recover, the knife once more at her throat. "I don't know every goddamn bishop in town, no matter how many weapons you wave in my face!"

"Fuck," K.T. growled, standing up from her and looking around. Not only was she young and inexperienced, but she was also being extraordinarily uncooperative. Blackwell tried to stand, but the Gangrel turned back to her quickly. "Don't move or I gut you where you are."

"I told you I don't know this Stokes guy," Blackwell retorted. "What do you want from me now?"

"You a Sabbat Loyalist?" K.T. asked. He now realized why Stokes had the names and addresses of the five people on the slip of paper; he was most likely trying to find the remaining Loyalists, hoping to get more information from the five of them.

"If I was, so what's it to you?" she said. "Are you Black Hand? Or an Inquisitor?"

"Inquisitor?" K.T. repeated, stopping. Most vampires first thought of Inquisitors as being the fanatically religious mortals who hunted vampires, but the mercenary had heard enough from Sabbat that he had worked with to know that the Sabbat had an Inquisition of its own, cleaning house after the sect's civil war in the first half of the century. Conflicting reports said that the Sabbat's Inquisition was looking for demon worshipers, dissidents, both, or neither, depending upon who asked the questions and who answered them. "The Inquisition is involved with this?"

"Involved in what?" Blackwell asked. "Who the hell are you? What's going on?"

"I'm trying to find out why you're on a list Stokes had before he died," K.T. said. He hesitated a moment, then decided to see how she would react to his next comment. "Oh, it might interest you to know that three of the five people on the list are dead. I get the feeling you're number four."

"Dead?" Blackwell asked, looking more stunned by the news than any punch, kick, or threat K.T. had leveled at her yet. So this girl did know more than she was letting on. "Are you sure?"

"Maybe," K.T. said. "Maybe you'd better rethink what you know about Cameron Stokes."

"He's Lasombra," Blackwell finally admitted after a long pause. "But I don't know much more than that, I swear!"

"Then you are a Loyalist," K.T. concluded. "And someone is killing you off."

"Killing us off?" Blackwell repeated, looking a bit frightened. "But who-? I knew it! I knew we never should have messed with Cordoba, and I said so, but would Jerry listen? No, he had to fuck with the guy and now we're all gonna die!"

"Who's Cordoba?" K.T. asked. Blackwell was pacing around the room, fear, anger and grief all trying to fight their way to the forefront on her face. She turned to him as he asked the question.

"Who are you?" she asked. "Are you an Inquisitor? How do I know you're not with Cordoba?"

"If I was, you'd most likely be dead already," K.T. said. "Besides, he uses Assamites. Stokes and his bodyguard were killed by one."

"Assamites?" Blackwell echoed, looking around her apartment again. "He has Assamites working for him?"

"You'd make a wonderful parrot," K.T. said flatly. While he was not certain if his would-be murderer from Brooklyn actually was an Assamite, the mere mention of the clan had put some of the Fear of God into Blackwell at the very least. "Now who is Cordoba?"

"Who are you, first?" Blackwell asked. "How do I know I can even trust you?"

"You're not dead," K.T. pointed out again. "That's why you can trust me. Now answer the question."

"You answer mine first," Blackwell said, folding her arms across her chest. "After all, I can't just call you 'you' all the time."

"K.T.," the Gangrel finally said, hoping to speed the interrogation process along. "Now answer my question."

"What clan?" Blackwell asked, still not moving.

"You try my patience," K.T. growled.

"Don't I, though?" Blackwell said. K.T. considered shooting her, but the sound of the gun would be far too noticeable in the apartment building. "Now come on. Which is it?"

"Yours first," K.T. said. He prayed that the conclusion he was coming to about her bloodline was not the truth.

"Ventrue, _antitribu_, and proud of it," Blackwell said. "And you?"

K.T. groaned inwardly, realizing yet another shot of bad luck for the night. A Ventrue _antitribu_ was the last thing he needed now. And so far, she was fitting the stereotype perfectly.

"You'd better thank God you're dead, Stokes," the Gangrel muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" the Ventrue asked.

"Gangrel," K.T. said, cursing his most recent stroke of bad luck for the night silently. A slight expression of distaste came to the Ventrue's face as he said that. "Now who is Cordoba? Is he Black Hand?"

"Black Hand?" Blackwell repeated. "No, he's not Black Hand. What the hell is going on?"

"Stokes said your pack intercepted a communiqué of some sort between Black Hand members," K.T. said, narrowing his eyes. "Who the hell's Cordoba?"

"What if he is Black Hand?" Blackwell asked, more to herself than to K.T. "What if that's why no one wants to mess with him?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" K.T. demanded. The Ventrue looked at him, panic starting to spread across her face, but then it subsided.

"No, it couldn't be," she said, finally coming to some conclusion on her own.

"Why don't you try telling me who Cordoba is," K.T. said with an exasperated expression, hoping that this time the inquiry would filter through her thick skull.

"Tomorrow," Blackwell said. "Look, I'm having some friends over, and I don't know how they'll react to you. You don't actually plan on staying here for the day, do you?"

"Neither of us are," K.T. said. Blackwell looked at him, an expression of indignance on her face. "We're leaving. Now."

"Oh, so now you're my father, too," she said. "Well, can I go out and play, daddy? Or do I have to stay inside?"

K.T. took one step up to her, and in a quick move backhanded her across the face.

"In one heartbeat, you're terrified of this Cordoba, and in the next, you're mouthing off to the only person that's survived his Assamite so far," K.T. pointed out angrily. This latest display of defiance was the last thing he needed. "Listen here, childe, we move now. Before that psychotic assassin shows up again."

"But they don't know who I am," Blackwell said. "And you have the list."

"I have Stokes' list, you stupid bitch!" K.T. snapped, finally losing whatever patience he had left. "Whoever this Cordoba is, he's after you, your one remaining friend, and now me! So get your little ass in gear before I kick it across the room!"

The outburst must have caught her totally off guard, because the young Ventrue was silent for a long moment, openmouthed and staring at K.T. Finally, the Gangrel turned and started for the door, cursing under his breath. If she wanted to get herself killed, that was fine by K.T. He could continue looking for the answers that he needed somewhere else. Hopefully, J. Bonifay would be more intelligent, more cooperative, and hopefully not a Ventrue _antitribu_.

"Wait!" Blackwell exclaimed, rushing to catch up with him. "Look, I… just let me get a few things first."

"Just things you can carry," K.T. said, turning back to her. "We don't have transportation."

"Oh yes we do," Blackwell countered with a smile. "My car is in the garage downstairs."

"Alright," K.T. conceded. "But one suitcase. We don't have the time to drag the mall around with us."

"Not all girls need to pack the mall to keep themselves well dressed," K.T. heard Blackwell call from the other room.

"I've yet to meet that one," K.T. grumbled, talking to the doorway. "Hurry up, Blackwell. We don't have all night."

"My name's Erica," the Ventrue _antitribu_ stated, peeking around the door. She was now bare to the waist, and K.T. simply shook his head. After a few more minutes than the Gangrel would have liked to have waited, Erica finally came out of the bedroom, dressed in a more serviceable pair of jeans and a sweat shirt. She had a light, white trench coat and an overnight bag in her hands, and she stopped as she considered K.T.'s duster for a long moment.

"Well, come on, John Wayne," she said. "You're the one in a hurry to get out of here."

K.T. simply glared at the young Ventrue coldly, already wishing that he had left while he had the chance. He turned to the door and started out, not waiting for his new companion until he reached the elevator doors. Erica slipped into the cab next to him, and hit the button for the garage level. The mercenary scowled at her, but Erica simply smiled back.

"You're just so humorless," the Ventrue complained as the elevator descended to the basement. "Maybe if you were nicer to people, they wouldn't all be trying to kill you."

"Shut up, Erica," K.T. said as they reached the bottom floor and headed into the parking garage. Part of his mind was debating whether he should drive his knife through the girl's heart, shutting her up until he might need her again, or plunging it into his own heart, ending the night's misery. Erica pulled her keys out of her purse, and turned to a dark green Beretta sitting in one corner of the garage.

"Really," she said, pointing her car alarm at the car and pressing the button. The car chirped once. "You need to-"

Then the car exploded.

K.T. and Erica were both thrown backwards by the deafening blast. He almost thought he was catching fire as the searing, brilliant ball of flame that was Erica's car lifted him and tossed him backwards in a shower of glass and metal shards, not only from the Beretta but from the other cars and even the lights overhead as all the glass in the parking lot was shattered. Stumbling to his feet, almost completely unable to hear from the blast, the Gangrel drew both his gun and knife and whirled around, trying to see through the brilliant flashes of color clouding his vision. Erica made it as far as one knee before she stopped and looked at the smoking, twisted remains of her car.

"Jesus Christ," Erica breathed out, badly shaken by the sudden explosion. She was barely audible over the sounds of car alarms going off through the garage. K.T. dragged her back to her feet as her eyes darted around the garage. "How… how could they know already?"

"We know everything, Erica Blackwell," someone said in an ominous tone behind the two of them. K.T. whirled around, already knowing who it was but astounded by how he had been found so quickly. As he had suspected, the assassin was standing there, the shotgun in his hand. "Wherever you go, I will know. Anywhere you hide, I will be waiting for you. Whoever you think will protect you, I will buy or kill."

Then his voice got extremely pleasant.

"So you may as well just give up now and let me kill you."

"I think I'll pass on that option," K.T. stated, taking stock of the situation quickly. His hand dropped to his gun, ready to draw when the inevitable gunfight began. The assassin shook his head sadly.

"Okay," he said. He fired once, forcing K.T. left and Erica to the right. His second blast caught the Ventrue in the knee, and she fell to the ground, screaming in pain. Once more the assassin threw the shotgun to one side and pulled out the Skorpion as K.T. drew his Ruger and fired. The killer rolled under the shot and jumped to his feet as K.T. fired again, diving to his left and disappearing behind a beat up Escort. The assassin popped up again a second later, but K.T. was already on the move, diving behind a car and firing over the hood wildly. The sprinkler system kicked on then, soaking him instantly as he ducked back behind the cover of a Cavalier.

"Come on out!" the assassin called out in an insanely cheerful voice over the din of the car alarms. "I love hide and seek, but I don't have the time!"

K.T. knocked the empty shells from his Ruger and reloaded quickly, considering his options. He could easily escape the parking garage, but that would leave his enemy alive and searching him out. It also left Erica to the killer's tender mercies, although the mercenary considered his newfound ally only a passing concern at best. His main reason for staying would be to finish the assassin off, freeing him from any more problems until he could leave the city.

There was another gunshot from his right. K.T. glanced over to see Erica on one knee, firing a Glock at the assassin. The Gangrel jumped to his feet then and fired as well, clipping the insane killer along the shoulder as he took aim for the _antitribu_. The assassin glanced between the two of them, then turned and sprinted up the driveway of the parking garage with supernatural speed. K.T. took only a few steps after him when Erica grabbed his arm.

"We don't have time for that!" she shouted, pushing her dripping wet hair out of her face. "The cops and the fire department are both going to be here any minute now!"

"Shit!" K.T. snapped. He knew Erica was right, though; sirens were now just barely audible over the burning car, the car alarms, and the sprinkler system. He grabbed the Ventrue by the arm and took off for the stairs, heading out onto Nineteenth Street and disappearing into an adjoining alley only a second before the police converged on the apartment building.

**III**

"Jesus Christ, who in Caine's name was that maniac?"

"That was the assassin that wasted Stokes and his bodyguard earlier," K.T. replied, not paying much attention to Erica as he reloaded his Ruger. He had spent the last two hours dragging the Ventrue through the streets of Manhattan, backtracking, doubling up on his tracks, and using every other trick he could think of to throw off any shadowers that might have followed the pair from Erica's apartment building. His assassin had disappeared without trace after their most recent gunfight, leaving the mercenary with a bad feeling that his movements were somehow being tracked. Now the pair had taken shelter in a narrow, nearly pitch black alley, both of them waiting tensely to see if the assassin would be able to find them here. While Manhattan's alleys provided a large number of hiding places from the assassin, K.T. was beginning to wish that he had remained in Brooklyn. He could have used the flat, wide open roof tops to spot his enemy coming and force a fight that could only end in one's death or incapacitation. K.T. tucked the Ruger back into its holster as he tried to figure out an advantage to be derived from the cramped alleys and towering skyscrapers of his present location.

"That must have been a Malkavian or something," Erica continued, mostly oblivious to K.T.'s statement. "He sure as hell was no Assamite. Why in Caine's name am I being chased around by a Malkavian?"

"Who's J. Bonifay?" K.T. asked, ignoring the young Ventrue's concerns and attempting to make some headway on his escape from New York. Erica looked up quickly, her eyes wide in surprise.

"Bonifay? That's my pack's leader!" she exclaimed. "How do you know about him?"

"If the assassin is going off the same sheet of paper I have, Bonifay's the last one, other than you, to kill off," K.T. said. Erica started for the street at the end of the alley, but the Gangrel grabbed her by the arm. "Where the hell are you going?"

"I have to get to Jerry before that psycho does!" Erica replied quickly. "Let go of me!"

"Wait a minute!" K.T. said, pulling her back again as she tried once more to get away. "This has something to do with that communiqué, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Erica asked, genuinely confused.

"Stokes said your pack intercepted some kind of message between two Hand members, and since then everyone's been dying off," K.T. said. If he had to remind the girl about this supposedly important document, he began to wonder what good she would even be to him in the future.

"That was hardly even important!" Erica said. "Now let me go!"

"Does Jerry have it?" K.T. asked. 

"He might," Erica replied, her hand dropping quickly to the Glock tucked into her waistline. "Now let me go before I do something you'll regret."

"Reach for your gun and I blow you in half," K.T. said, pulling his own revolver and sticking it into her chest. Erica looked down at the weapon, then back up to the mercenary's cold gaze. "Now we're both going to Jerry's. Don't do anything stupid."

"Me? Act stupid?" Erica asked, incredulous. "You're the one that's been charging into apartments and threatening or shooting everyone you meet! Maybe you should think about controlling yourself before you worry about what I'm going to do, you muscleheaded freak!"

K.T. started to turn, then brought his gun up and pistol whipped the Ventrue, hearing a satisfying crack as he connected with her jaw.

"Don't make me do that again," K.T. ordered as he roughly picked Erica up. "The only reason you're still alive is because I decided you might be useful somewhere down the line. Don't make me rethink that decision."

"Asshole," Erica grumbled, holding the side of her face. K.T. smiled coldly at her.

"I could have shot you," the Gangrel said. He turned and started for the entrance of the alley. "Now come on."

Twenty-fourth Street was only a ten minute walk from the alley where they had taken shelter, but to K.T. the trip was nine and a half minutes too long. As he made his way up Eighth Avenue, he became painfully aware of the shadows, dark alleys, and even the people around him, trying to find some hint of an assassin's presence. Using the vampiric discipline of obfuscate, the assassin could hide himself in even the smallest shadows, or he could be disguised as one of the dozens of mortals on the street. If the assassin had studied the discipline long enough, he could even turn invisible, and could be walking right next to K.T. without the mercenary even being able to tell. The Gangrel glanced over at Erica, and noticed that she was nervous as well; the young Ventrue tried to keep her distance from every person and every blind corner on the street, nearly bumping into K.T. on more than one occasion. As they finally neared their destination, the Gangrel decided that, for quite possibly the first time in his life, he would be happy to be inside a closed room where he could see everything around him than out in the open air.

Jerry Bonifay's apartment was another well maintained apartment building looking over the streets of the Flatiron District, another haven from the young and upwardly mobile of Manhattan. Rows of windows and long, continuous ledges cut across each floor of the building, ascending thirty-five stories into the dark skies above. K.T. stopped to check the address of the apartment building one last time, but Erica quickly breezed past him, making her way through the darkly tinted glass doors of the building's lobby. K.T. hesitated outside the apartment for a moment, feeling a deep, dull ache in the pit of his stomach. He had been forced to use up most of his blood on healing and fueling his vampiric powers, and was now beginning to feel the unreasoning Hunger descending upon him. The lobby of Bonifay's apartment building currently contained over a dozen mortals, all easy marks for a hungry vampire if he was unconcerned about hiding his undead nature. Steeling his will, the Gangrel marched in through the doors, pointedly keeping his eyes from lingering on any of the mortals that were gathered near the elevators. Erica was nowhere to be found in the lobby, and so K.T. quickly started up the fire stairs, heading for the fifteenth floor of the building.

K.T. scanned the hallway of the fifteenth floor for a moment as he pushed through the fire door, then stepped out into the brightly lit, gray carpeted hallway. Erica was still nowhere to be found, but the mercenary suspected that his current companion was already at Bonifay's apartment. Finally, as he reached apartment 1541, the mercenary found the door pushed halfway open, a key still stuck in the dead bolt. K.T. removed the key, then pulled the door shut as he walked into Jerry Bonifay's apartment.

Jerry Bonifay's apartment was a study in contemporary tastes. A pair of black leather couches ran along the living room walls to his left and in front of him, bounded by tall, black lamps trimmed in polished brass. A large, clear glass coffee table sat in front of the sofas on the plush white carpeting of the living room floor. Heavy black drapes framed a large picture window just to the right of the far couch, affording a decent, but not spectacular, view of the Flatiron's skyline. To the mercenary's left, a short, wide hallway led to a spacious bathroom with a marble tub, and a doorway to the right of the bath that offered a view of a wide bedroom. A large kitchen was built to his right, separated from the living room by a wide, lacquered wood bar, complete with a row of black stools on the living room side of the counter. A large, black metal entertainment center came into view along the right wall of the living room as the Gangrel walked farther into the apartment, holding a large television, a state of the art stereo, and two VCRs. Large hardwood speakers finished the living room furnishings, set on either side of the entertainment center. To afford such an apartment in middle Manhattan, Jerry Bonifay had to have a high bankroll, and K.T. once again pondered the possibility that he had found a competent member of the Sabbat. Erica came out of the bedroom as the mercenary moved into the apartment, her face a mask of concern for her packmate's safety.

"He's not here," the Ventrue said, still looking around the apartment as though she expected Bonifay to appear at any moment.

"Nothing's touched," K.T. observed, scanning the apartment once more. Everything seemed to be perfectly in order, showing no signs of a struggle. "He went out for the night. Vampires are known to do that. Now let's get out of here before that assassin shows up. Do you know where he might have gone?"

"No," Erica replied. "Yeah, we're packmates, but that doesn't mean I know where he is all the time."

"Wonderful," K.T. grumbled, looking around. He was once more without a single lead. "I need blood and we need a place to stay for the night. You know this city better than I do. Where do we go?"

"We can stay here," Erica said. K.T. looked at her for a moment in disbelief.

"You really have no idea how stupid you are, do you?" he asked. Erica folded her arms across her chest and looked at him angrily.

"Yeah, I'm dumb," Erica said sarcastically. "I'm so dumb that I know the assassin won't show up here. If he was going to, he would have shown up an hour ago, before we could get here. After all, we didn't see him at all for the last hour and a half. No one could be that good."

"If he's an Assamite he could be," K.T. pointed out. Erica shrugged.

"Then he would either attack us here, or he would follow us to where we're going and then attack us there," Erica said in a rather condescending tone. "Face it. We lost him, and he wouldn't think we're dumb enough to come here. Sometimes, thinking stupidly can work."

K.T. prayed he would find a fault with the plan for no other reason than to show Erica that she was not as smart as she thought she was. Unfortunately, she had a very valid point. It was getting closer to dawn; the assassin, if he was following them, would have to make his move soon. K.T. would have done something by now, if he were the assassin.

"What about feeding?" the Gangrel finally asked, conceding the first point to the Ventrue. Erica said nothing, but walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She took two wine bottles filled with blood from the top shelf, and turned back to lean on the counter that separated her from the Gangrel.

"This should keep both of us for the night," Erica decided, handing one of the bottles of blood over to K.T. The Gangrel looked at the bottle for a moment, then turned to the Ventrue. "Oh, come on. Do you think we always go out and drain people to death? That can be so much trouble at times. Besides, you should have seen the looks on the faces of the technicians when we walked into the blood bank and asked for a withdrawal. It was to die for."

K.T. looked at her for another moment, then pulled the cork out of the bottle and drank its contents in a single chug. Erica was still smiling as she drank down her own bottle, still amused with the image she had conjured up. His hunger sated for the moment, K.T. put the empty bottle down on the counter and turned back to the bedroom. He still needed answers, and he was getting nowhere with his newfound partner.

"Where are you going?" Erica asked, seeing him walk into the hallway and start through the bedroom door. "Hey, K.T., what do you think you're doing?"

"I'm looking," the mercenary answered, largely ignoring the Ventrue as he entered the bedroom. A king sized bed with black blankets dominated the center of the otherwise bare room, flanked on either side by dressers of black varnished wood standing against the wall to his left. A large window, painted solid black and covered by thick black curtains, took up much of the far wall. K.T. looked around for a moment, and slowly noticed that there were no mirrors in the apartment.

"Looking for what?" Erica demanded, following K.T. into the bedroom.

"That communiqué that you think has nothing to do with the situation," the mercenary answered. "Where would he keep private documents?"

"I'm not going to tell you that!" Erica exclaimed. "You can't just bust into someone's apartment and rip through their stuff!"

"Then tell me where the hell it is!" K.T. snapped, turning back on the girl. "Look, it's been a really long night! I've been shot at a whole lot, and I'm not even getting paid for this shit! Now until I find out if this psychotic bastard that thinks he's an Assamite is going to hunt me to the ends of the earth, I can't leave this God forsaken city, so I'd really like to find out who he is and get on with my fucking life! Now where the fuck are his private documents?"

"I'm not going to tell you," Erica stated evenly. Her voice slowly started to rise as she continued to speak. "Jerry will be back tonight, and if he isn't he'll be back tomorrow night. Considering that the sun will be up in an hour or two, you can't go anyplace today. So just settle in, relax for the rest of the night, get a good day's sleep, and then you can find out from Jerry where he keeps his fucking top secret Black Hand communiqués!"

K.T. glared at Erica for a long moment, but this time the girl refused to back down.

"Fine," the mercenary relented. "But if he isn't here tomorrow night, I'm ripping through everything he owns in search of this letter."

"Fine," Erica huffed, dropping down on the bed. She started to burrow under the blankets, then looked back at K.T. "Turn off the lights while you're still standing."

K.T. glared at the young Ventrue for a moment, then walked over to the light switch.

"I should have shot her while I had the chance," the mercenary grumbled, just loud enough for Erica to hear. Then he picked out as comfortable a spot as he could find on the floor, and drifted off into fitful sleep.

The sound of a phone being slammed down woke K.T. with a start. The mercenary jumped up, his hand already halfway to his Ruger, before he could completely identify the sound. K.T. looked around for a moment until he saw Erica sitting crosslegged on the edge of the bed, a phone in her lap. As K.T. turned to her, he noticed a concerned expression on her face.

"Something wrong?" the Gangrel inquired, stretching slightly.

"Is something wrong?" Erica repeated, incredulous. "I can't reach him anywhere! I beeped him, I called our communal haven, I even tried most of his friends!"

"I take it we're talking about Bonifay," K.T. assumed. Erica gave him an angry glare. "You're going to have to face the fact that the assassin probably got to him already."

"He's not dead," Erica countered. "He must just be someplace else."

"Sure," K.T. said, keeping all but the faintest hints of sarcasm from his voice. Erica turned back to him, an angry expression on her face as she opened her mouth to reprimand the mercenary.

The sound of the apartment door opening silenced the young Ventrue before she could speak. Erica started to turn to the bedroom door, but K.T. quickly motioned for her to remain silent where she was. Erica reluctantly complied, listening to the sounds of someone moving through the living room. Slowly K.T. drew his Ruger, waiting for the unseen newcomer to appear at the door.

"Erica?" a man suddenly called out from the living room, his voice somewhat hesitant. K.T. glanced over to the Ventrue, but she was already rushing through the door.

"Jerry!" Erica exclaimed, disappearing into the living room. K.T. dropped his face into his left hand in disgust, wishing that his one excuse for an ally in the entire city would show a little restraint. Finally, after waiting for a few seconds and not hearing a roar of gunfire, the mercenary cautiously walked out of the bedroom.

K.T. walked back into the living room to see Erica in the arms of a slightly taller man that appeared to be even younger than Erica, his long black hair pulled into a ponytail that rested on the collar of his black suit. The Ventrue's friend turned his dark eyes to K.T. as the mercenary appeared in the room, glancing down to the Ruger that the Gangrel still loosely held in his right hand. Standing just beyond the pair was a haggard looking man of about thirty, nervously watching K.T. for any signs of danger. Erica noticed the sudden unease that had come over both Jerry and the other man, and took a step back.

"Oh," Erica said, gesturing to the mercenary. "Jerry, this is K.T. He helped me get away from this psychotic assassin that showed up at my place last night."

"Nice to meet you, K.T.," Jerry said, his voice still betraying a bit of his distrust of the mercenary.

"Feelings are mutual," K.T. stated, finally holstering his Ruger. Jerry and K.T. sized each other up for a moment. "So, you're a Lasombra, I take it?"

Jerry seemed surprised at the tactless remark, but then smiled slightly.

"Yes, I am," the young man replied. "I guess the lack of mirrors gave it away. To be so blunt, you could only be Gangrel."

K.T. said nothing, but simply nodded in agreement as he considered his newest associate. The Lasombra was the clan that fielded the traditional leaders of the Sabbat, a clan of manipulators and deceivers with a unique vampiric discipline to control shadows and darkness as well as the classical vampiric weakness of being incapable of casting a reflection in mirrors. K.T. disliked dealing with the clan on the whole, and he was already certain that this time would be no different.

"Where the hell have you been, Jerry?" Erica asked, cutting into the conversation as she tried to find out more from her packmate. "I called everywhere looking for you! I almost thought you were dead!"

"I was riding around town," Jerry replied. "When I got word about Calvin and Jake getting murdered, I took to the streets. Collins here was an exceptional aide to keeping me moving and safe, even during the daylight hours. I was kind of glad I was asleep, too. Collins took us out to Staten Island."

Collins shrugged his shoulders as Erica looked over at him.

"Why didn't you let me know what was going on?" Erica asked, turning back to the Lasombra.

"I tried," Jerry answered. "Five times I called your place, but no one was home. I got your answering machine, and I was a little nervous about leaving a message."

"Yeah, well, we were moving around town a bit last night, too," Erica admitted. "K.T. got to me just before this nut job of an assassin that thought he was an Assamite did." She glanced over to K.T., and for a moment the Gangrel thought he saw something that might have been construed as a thankful expression on her face. "I guess it's because of him that I'm still alive."

"Well, K.T., I guess I owe you a debt of thanks," Jerry said, giving K.T. an amiable smile. "You saved the last living member of my pack last night."

"Yeah, well, I didn't have anything else to do," the mercenary grumbled out. "Do you have the communiqué your pack intercepted from the Black Hand?"

"The communiqué? Why?" Jerry asked, looking confused. K.T.'s eyes narrowed the slightest bit as he examined Jerry a second time.

"You intercepted a communiqué from the Black Hand and sent it off to a bishop," the Gangrel started. "Since then, everyone who has seen that communiqué, and another bishop and his bodyguard besides, has either been killed or at least come very close to dying. Didn't you ever think that the communiqué might have something to do with it?"

"I think this all has to do with our differences with Cordoba," Erica said to Jerry. The Lasombra looked from her to K.T.

"So do I ever get to find out who this Cordoba is?" the Gangrel asked, rapidly becoming disgusted with the runaround he received every time the name was mentioned. "Is he Black Hand?"

"You're not from around here, that's for sure," Jerry remarked, his eyes showing a bit of suspicion. "Who are you?"

"My name is K.T.," the Gangrel replied. "Bishop Stokes called me in to look into something with the Black Hand. Now can someone please tell me who Cordoba is?"

"Called you in?" Jerry repeated. "You are Sabbat, aren't you?"

Erica turned to K.T., a surprised look on her face as he hesitated in answering. From her reaction, the mercenary could easily tell that the young Ventrue had never even considered the possibility that K.T. was not a member of the Sabbat.

"No," K.T. finally answered. He could have lied and told them that he was, even backing up his claim with a little bit of knowledge he had picked up about the sect along the way, but decided that Jerry's trust meant too little to him to attempt the deception. "I'm a mercenary. I was hired by Stokes, but now he's as dead and some lunatic who thinks he's the greatest assassin in Assamite history is after the three of us. I can't leave town until I know how much of a threat this idiot is going to be to me, so, one more time, who is Cordoba?"

Jerry stalled for a long moment, looking to Erica. The Ventrue seemed too surprised by K.T.'s revelation of his mercenary status to even give her packmate some kind of sign that they could trust the mercenary. K.T. folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, rapidly growing tired of the Lasombra's hesitation.

"Okay," Jerry finally said, resigning himself to taking on the mercenary as an ally in his difficult situation. "Cordoba is a Panders with a serious attitude problem."

"You're afraid of a Panders," K.T. stated, rolling his eyes in disgust. K.T. knew of the Panders "clan"; they were Caitiff, the clanless, thin blooded vampires of the Sabbat, and they were still often treated as second class citizens by the elders of the sect. No Panders that K.T. knew of could even come close to affording a real Assamite, or even an insane vampire that thought he was an Assamite.

"I know, I know," Jerry said. "Since you've obviously heard of the Panders, you're asking yourself how one lousy Panders could be such a threat, am I right?"

"You're on the right track," K.T. stated.

"Well, ordinarily, the most you'd have to worry about from a Panders is a smartass remark or maybe a fistfight," Jerry admitted. "But Cordoba, well, he's different. He's the baddest of the bad in Lower Manhattan, a cold blooded killer and the undisputed leader of one of the largest packs in the area, fourteen strong. He also has enormous influence over two other packs in the area, giving him another fifteen soldiers whenever he wants them. He has such complete control over Lower Manhattan that he even makes the local bishops nervous, and I've heard that Polonia himself was taking notice of Cordoba. The man is a bishop in everything but name. And he wants that title, too. He'll kill anyone that gets in his way. Look what happened to Stokes. You said he's dead, right? Cordoba and Stokes never liked each other. We're talking about a guy who threatens bishops, demands absolute respect from anyone passing through his turf, and managed to steal a third of the heroin trade in Lower Manhattan from the Setites."

"So you're telling me that this Panders is running around whacking bishops and entire packs in the Sabbat," K.T. stated. The mercenary was far from convinced, but he had to give Cordoba at least a little respect. If what Jerry was saying was true, the Panders had gone up against the Setites and won, no mean feat for even a seasoned pack of Sabbat. The Followers of Set were composed of some of the most corrupt, evil, and duplicitous vampires in existence. Most of the vampires that went up against the Followers in established Setite territories lost if they were lucky, or became unwitting pawns of the Setites' malignant schemes.

"You don't know the guy like we do, K.T.," Erica said, speaking up before Jerry could argue his point. For the first time since he had met her, K.T. could not find a trace of the condescending edge in the Ventrue's voice, but a faint tint of fear. "You never heard about the Limelight."

"The Limelight?" K.T. repeated. Jerry nodded.

"About a year ago, eight nomadic Sabbat rolled into town," Erica started, carefully recalling the tale. "They stopped in at the Limelight, which is a club down on Twentieth Street. They had no way of knowing that the Limelight is one of Cordoba's favorite haunts. Well, Cordoba and his pack met up with the nomads there, and things got out of hand. Cordoba simply ordered five of his packmates to tear into the nomads, and his pack killed six of them right then and there. Cordoba let two of them escape on purpose, then let his hunters loose after them, so that they could hunt the two nomads across the city and slaughter them one at a time. Like we're being hunted now."

"But then what about the communiqué?" K.T. asked. "Is Cordoba Black Hand?"

"He could be," Jerry said. The thought that Cordoba could be part of the Hand seemed to make the Lasombra a bit nervous. "He's certainly brutal enough, and I've seen Assamites get a little nervous at the thought of the possibility of fighting him. And it might explain part of the reason why the bishops in the city won't use the Hand against him. After all, if he's one of them the Hand might kill the bishops instead. Maybe Stokes and Halsey were both killed because they knew too much, and Cordoba didn't want his alliance with the Hand confirmed. Maybe he's planning on taking the city over with the Hand's assistance."

"Halsey's the bishop you turned to, right?" K.T. asked, looking for a loophole in this seemingly unbelievable story.

"Yeah," Jerry replied. "We thought he'd be on the level. No one really likes a Loyalist, but he tolerated us better than most. He said he would look into the matter personally for us. Three days later, well, nothing was left of him but ash."

"He killed two bishops to keep a secret," K.T. said skeptically.

"He would," Erica interjected. "The guy's a brutal murderer. You heard what Jerry said. The Assamites are scared of him!"

"Where's the communiqué?" K.T. asked, turning to Jerry.

"Our pack's haven," the Lasombra replied. "I had planned on keeping it hidden until I could find another bishop I knew I could trust. I don't know what's going on in this town, but right now you and Erica are the only ones I would trust to be on my side right now."

"Then let's go get it and turn it over to someone before we all end up dead," K.T. said.

"But who do we turn it over to?" Erica asked.

"Who do we have left?" Jerry asked. "It's hard to find someone we can trust. Our last option is the archbishop, but I'm in no hurry to go in front of Polonia with a story like this."

"There's no other choice," Erica pointed out. Jerry nodded in reluctant agreement.

"Then let's go get this communiqué," K.T. said. Jerry nodded.

"Just let me get a jacket out of my closet, and we'll be on our way," the Lasombra said, walking into his bedroom. K.T. watched him disappear for a long moment, distrust in his eyes. Most likely it was nothing more than a simple suspicion of any Lasombra, but something about Jerry's smooth answers to his disappearance and his inability to contact Erica the previous night did not sit well with the mercenary. Erica moved into his line of sight after a moment, watching him for a long moment.

"What?" the young Ventrue finally inquired, her face taking on the first hints of anger. K.T. looked at her, and shrugged.

"Nothing," he said simply.

"It'd better be nothing," Erica stated. With the way he looked, the Ventrue could tell that K.T. was unwilling to buy something in Jerry's story. K.T. simply shrugged again, then looked past her as Jerry returned to the living room. The Lasombra gestured to Collins, and the mortal retainer led the three vampires out of the apartment.

****

IV

"I can't wait until this is all over," Erica said, watching the street from her window as Collins drove south through Manhattan on Seventh Avenue. "I can't stand any more of this."

"I hope this plan does work," Jerry said from the front seat. "We're taking a risk here, but I think that we have a good shot at getting the archbishop to come around to our side. After all, with the way Cordoba has been putting on airs lately, all of the bishops are probably hoping for three people like us to come around with some incriminating evidence."

"And it was just my luck to be one of those three," K.T. grumbled.

"Odd how fate works, isn't it?" Jerry inquired, turning back to the mercenary. "K.T., look, I know you're not Sabbat, but you helped us out more than you know. We really owe you a debt of thanks. Because of that, I'd like to offer you membership in our pack."

"Membership in your pack?" K.T. repeated, looking up to the Lasombra in surprise.

"Yeah," Jerry replied. "We've really taken a beating lately, and our pack will be disbanded if we don't replace the losses. You'd be a great addition to the pack, K.T."

"I think I'm fine on my own," K.T. said, looking out the window. Erica turned to him, and for a moment K.T. thought he saw something odd in her eyes that he could not quite place.

"Come on," she said. "At least for a little bit. Maybe you'll like life with the Sabbat."

"I'm much better off without having to look after people and have people look after me," K.T. said. "I don't work well in groups."

"Alright," Erica said, turning back to her window. K.T. could have sworn that there was a note of disappointment in the Ventrue's words, but for the time being put that out of his mind. He continued to watch the traffic and buildings of Seventh Avenue roll by, ignoring Jerry and Erica as they discussed things that had nothing to do with their current situation. K.T.'s biggest problem came in accepting the fact that a Panders could be responsible for what was going on within the city. The mercenary had met one or two of the clanless Sabbat that had mastered the skills and disciplines needed to become a terror in personal combat, but only the rarest and most cunning of the Panders could rise in influence beyond the level of his own pack. Still, if what Jerry and Erica had told him was true, the mercenary was going to need kryptonite to deal with Cordoba.

"We're here," Erica suddenly said brightly, patting K.T. on the shoulder. The Gangrel snapped out of his thoughts quickly, seeing Jerry and Erica already stepping out of the Lexus. K.T. followed suit, and took a moment to scan his surroundings for any sign of trouble. The corner of Seventh Avenue and Tenth Street was not a fantastic neighborhood, but it was by no means the worst, either. Six story brownstones, all kept free of graffiti and well maintained, lined the streets, making K.T. think more of Brooklyn than Manhattan. The streets too ran in an odd pattern; just to the south, Fourth Street crossed over Tenth Street, while Charles Street intercepted Seventh Avenue just to the north. Cars lined the sides of the thoroughfares, but somehow Collins had managed to find a space right in front of Jerry's communal haven. The Lasombra walked up the sidewalk to the building, drawing a set of keys from his pocket to unlock the door. As he did so, K.T. turned to look back up the street, in time to see a large, orange Cadillac low rider turn the corner of Charles Street. Jerry pushed the door open even as the Cadillac began to speed up, and the Gangrel could see the barrel of a shotgun protruding from the window as it rapidly drew closer.

"Cover!" K.T. shouted. He tackled Erica to the ground as the gunmen started to fire, narrowly missing getting the top of his head taken off by a shotgun blast. The car sped past, then slammed on the brakes, spinning around to make a second pass.

"Get in here!" Jerry shouted from the door. K.T. drew his Ruger and started to stand, but at the same moment Collins was thrown back by a single, well placed shot through his heart. The mercenary dropped back behind the Lexus, searching quickly for the new shooter, dragging Erica back down by her arm before the sniper could zero in on the young Ventrue. K.T. heard the Cadillac screeching through a turn as he located the sniper on the roof of the brownstone across the street, but before he could say anything the shooter let off another round. Jerry screamed in pain, and the mercenary glanced back over his shoulder to see the Lasombra tumbling back into his haven. K.T. started to raise himself up over the roof of the Lexus, but the Cadillac was on them then, raking the Lexus with machinegun fire and forcing K.T. and Erica back to the ground. Glass shattered and rained down on the mercenary as he tried to figure out a way from the car to the relative safety of the haven without being cut to ribbons by the sniper and the gang bangers in the car. Erica put her back to the Lexus as she drew her Glock, flinching away as another bullet from the sniper punched through the hood of the car and missed her head by only a few inches. The Cadillac was turning around already, ready to come back for another pass. 

"They're fucking with us!" the Ventrue screamed over the rapid fire of gunmen in the Cadillac. "We've got to get to the house!"

"Who the fuck are they?" K.T. demanded. He leaned over the hood of the car and fired one shot at the sniper, then jumped back before the assassin could pick him off.

"I think they're Setites!" Erica shouted back. She started to say something else, but suddenly her chest exploded from the impact of another bullet; the sniper had gotten her cleanly even while firing straight through the Lexus. She stared down at her chest in shock, her brown eyes wide, then she slumped over.

"Fuck!" K.T. growled. He could hear the Cadillac coming back for another pass, and K.T. shifted his position lower and closer to Erica just a second before more bullets riddled the car only inches over his head. Pretty soon the Setites were going to get tired of this game and stop to finish them off, but the assassin was going to make it nearly impossible to get to the house. As if to punctuate the point, another bullet ripped through the front of the Lexus where he had been only a moment ago. Erica stirred then, still holding her chest in pain but healed enough to do something again. The only plus in the whole deal was that the Setites were too busy having fun; they were aiming high and not stopping to finish them off yet.

"We're fucked, aren't we?" she asked weakly. K.T. was about to confirm her fears, but then opened the car door. "What are you doing?"

"Just get in the fucking car!" K.T. shouted. He didn't have much time, but a buddy of his had once taught him how to hotwire cars for just such an emergency as this. He just hoped the Lexus would still run for at least a couple of blocks before it died. "Shoot at the fucking sniper! Buy me a minute!"

Erica pulled herself up enough to see the barrel of the rifle that had shot her a minute ago, then looked back to where Collins was lying face down on the pavement. She glanced back up at the sniper; he seemed to be taking aim at the car again, trying to hit the Gangrel through the Lexus.

"You shoot at him!" the Ventrue shouted back. K.T. turned back to her in shock. "Buy me a second!"

"What the fuck are you doing?" K.T. screamed over the roar of gunfire again. If Erica had heard him, however, she completely ignored him. K.T. looked up in time to see the barrel of the sniper's gun swing away from the car and to the Ventrue, who was now running for the body of the ghoul. The Setites were already turning around; she had maybe ten seconds before the Cadillac would make another pass. He fired twice at the roof, and the barrel slid back as the sniper tried to take cover. Erica reached the body and fumbled through the pockets; the Setites had turned and were already returning, shooting at Erica as she came up with the keys and sprinted back for the Lexus. At the last moment she jumped into the car, taking one bullet through her calf. She handed the keys off to K.T., and he quickly turned the ignition.

For the amount of bullets the Setites and the sniper combined had put through it, K.T. was surprised his half baked plan had even worked. The engine came to life with a whine of protest, and K.T. slammed the car into reverse as the Setites flew past them. Bullets started to tear into the car again as the Cadillac flew past. Erica hastily pulled her door closed, then grabbed K.T.'s arm.

"What about Jerry?" she exclaimed. "He's still in the house!"

"He's on his own!" K.T. replied, his head snapping back and forth to see both behind and in front of the car. The Setites were spinning around short of their usual mark, and starting to close even before they had picked up much speed. "We'll come back and try to get him later!"

"We have to get him now or he'll be killed!" Erica shouted, on the verge of panic. 

"We'll all be killed if we go back!" K.T. shot back. He continued the car's reverse motion, switching his Ruger to his left hand and sticking the gun out the window for a wild shot. He caught sight of the Ventrue starting to open the door to get out, and quickly switched his gun back to his right hand. Before she could completely open the door, the Gangrel smashed the butt of the oversized revolver into the side of her head, knocking her unconscious. Then he turned the corner of Eleventh Street, dropped the car into first gear with a terrible whine from the transmission, and shot forward only a second before the Setites could ram broadside into the car. The Cadillac tried to take the turn after them too quickly and ended up smacking into the side of one of the brownstones, slowing them down enough for him to turn up Sixth Avenue. He quickly stopped the car, grabbed the unconscious Ventrue, and pushed out of the car through the partially open passenger door, using his celerity to triple his speed as he raced for the cover of a narrow alley. The Cadillac screeched to a halt at the end of the alley as he threw Erica's limp body over a ten foot fence, then scrambled over the top of it as the Setites lit up the narrow confines with machinegun fire. Two bullets clipped the Gangrel as he jumped over the fence, then he dove to the ground as the fence itself started to disintegrate above him. Erica moaned softly, but she still was not up for any decathlons through the streets of Manhattan. K.T. crawled up to her, then in a quick move hefted her over his shoulder and took off. One bullet ripped through his forearm and another grazed hi ear, but K.T. turned the corner of the alley onto Seventh Avenue remarkably unscathed.

"Yeah, you run, filt'y Sabbat!" someone shouted from behind the fence. K.T. glanced back to see someone standing at what was left of the fence, an AK-47 held skyward. He expected another shot, but instead the figure flicked a cigarette in his direction. "Run, Sabbat, run!"

K.T. decided to take the Setite's advice, and sprinted away down the street.

Lying on the floor of the brownstone's front hall, Jerry was able to hear the gunfight continuing on the street outside. Slowly the Lasombra pulled himself into a sitting position, making sure that he still had his Glock as he tried to heal the extensive damage that the sniper's bullet had done to his chest. Finally, as Jerry made his way back to the slightly opened door, he could hear the Lexus start up with a cry of protest, and the gunfight quickly followed the sounds of the tortured motor towards Eleventh Street. Pulling the door open an inch further, Jerry glanced out onto the street.

The Lexus was gone, he noticed quickly, as he thought it would be. Gasoline, oil, coolant, and transmission fluid pooled on the ground where the car had been parked, and one or two faint bloodstains adorned the curb. Collins was still lying on the ground where he had fallen, but someone had pushed him over onto his back and rifled his pockets. The sniper that had taken up a position across the street was long gone. After allowing himself to finish healing his injury and scanning the streets for any signs of danger, Jerry carefully shut the door of the brownstone and headed back into the building.

The narrow hallway led back to a darkened kitchen, light shining in through the window set over the sink standing directly opposite the doorway. An oval table and four wooden chairs sat in the center of the room, while an old, slightly worn range and refrigerator rested against the wall on his right. Jerry walked into the kitchen silently, making his way to a small counter next to the sink, taking a lighter from the top of the counter and igniting it to shed a little bit of light on the room. After one last glance over his shoulder, Jerry opened the top drawer of the counter and rummaged through the assortment of papers inside. Finally, he found the document he was looking for, and held it up in the feeble illumination of the lighter. This was what K.T. had been looking for. The communiqué that seemed to be getting everyone killed.

"Ooh, now dis one is good," someone said behind him. Jerry turned around to see a large man standing in the doorway, a shotgun resting casually on his shoulder. He was at least six foot five and about half as wide, a truly intimidating man with long black dred locks and mirror shades despite the darkness. His pearly white smile stood out despite the darkness, contrasted even further by his midnight colored face. "One o' de filt'y Sabbat left behind by 'is friends."

"Well well, Clairvius," Jerry said, looking for a way out of the brownstone quickly. The window over the sink was close enough to be a real chance. Clairvius was quite possibly the most physically deadly member of the Followers of Set in New York City, and almost always loaded his shotgun with the deadly Dragon's Breath rounds, phosphorous slugs that could burn a vampire to death in short order. While Jerry stood a slim chance of outmaneuvering Clairvius in the small kitchen, one hit from that shotgun would likely kill the Lasombra instantly. "What do the Setites want with me now?"

"Oh, we be wantin' our drug trade back, Jerry," Clairvius replied. "Now we be takin' back de streets in our own way, an' you better get out of our way. Or maybe you be wantin' to join us?"

"I don't think so," Jerry said, taking an almost imperceptible step towards the window. Clairvius chuckled a little.

"Where do you t'ink you're goin'?" he asked. Jerry cursed silently. He looked down at the paper in his hand, and then put the lighter to it. Clairvius whipped the shotgun off of his shoulder, but Jerry leapt through the window with a supernatural burst of speed only a second before the Setite could fire.

Clairvius stopped himself from squeezing down on the trigger at the last instant, knowing that his wild blast would never reach the speedy Lasombra. Clairvius cursed at losing his prey, but then quickly moved across the kitchen and stamped out the smoldering paper that Jerry had dropped on the floor. The Setite removed his mirror shades as he bent down and retrieved the document, slowly reading over the contents. As he finished reading the message, the ghost of a grin passed over his face, and Clairvius neatly folded the paper and placed it in his trench coat pocket. Finally, the Setite turned and started out of the brownstone, softly whistling as he left.

"It ain't much, but it's the best I can do with time and resources."

K.T. watched as Erica walked into the dingy room, on the third floor of a run down welfare motel situated on Canal Street only a few blocks from the Holland Tunnel. The only light in the room came from a single bulb suspended from the ceiling, dangling over a narrow single bed with rust stained, vaguely white sheets. A badly beaten night table stood next to the bed, bare of anything but an ancient rotary telephone and heavy scarring from the room's previous tenants. The off white walls were peeling in many places, revealing the bare sheet rock beneath the rough, filthy paint job. The bathroom, standing off to the right, was no better than the bedroom. Rust and dirt stains ringed the toilet bowl and the bathtub, and the bath mat was now a grayish black from its original white. Erica dropped down on the bed, ignoring the faint cloud of dust that rose up around her, holding her head where K.T. had pistol whipped her into unconsciousness. "You feeling alright?"

"We left him there," Erica stated, looking up with hatred at the Gangrel. "You bastard, we left Jerry there to die."

"All three of us would have died if we had tried to get Jerry," K.T. pointed out. "As it was, we're lucky to be alive right now. I still don't know why those Setites gave up on us like they did."

"We still left him there to die," Erica said. "Of all my pack, he was the closest friend I had."

"Then he would have wanted you to get away," K.T. said. He walked over to the windows of the bedroom, and looked out at the slowly brightening sky over the cramped, run down buildings of Canal Street. "We'll go back and see if he's there tomorrow. Beep him now, and if he calls back we'll arrange a meeting tomorrow night. Okay?"

"Okay," Erica said. She walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. Then she slammed it down. "The fucking phone doesn't work!"

"I figure you don't have a cell phone," K.T. concluded.

"No," Erica replied. "Do you?"

"Never needed one," K.T. answered, looking out of the motel room again. It was too late to try and find a pay phone at this hour of the morning; K.T. had used up far too much time backtracking through Manhattan top throw off any possible pursuers. "If Jerry's safe, then he'll be alright for the day. Get some sleep, and you can call him first thing tomorrow night. Okay?"

Erica said nothing, but picked up the receiver one more time. She listened for a moment, then slowly put the phone back on the old night stand.

"Alright," Erica finally said. "But promise me that we'll find Jerry tomorrow night. Please."

"We'll see," K.T. said, a bit hesitant. He turned to the window, and felt the thin fabric of the drapes. "I don't think these curtains'll keep the sun off us for the day. You take the bathroom, and I'll fight the roaches for the closet."

"Okay," Erica said quietly. She looked at K.T. for a moment, then walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The mercenary stood out in the bedroom for a moment longer, then shook his head and walked into the closet.

When K.T. awoke in the evening, he could already hear someone moving around in the bedroom. Slowly the mercenary drew his Ruger and cracked open the closet door, but then relaxed as he saw Erica sitting on the bed and putting the phone back on the nightstand. Relaxing slightly, the mercenary holstered his gun and left his daytime hiding place. Erica looked up as he appeared, and smiled slightly.

"They restored service today," the Ventrue said. "I just beeped Jerry, so he should be calling back soon."

"You don't know how happy that makes me," K.T. stated, walking over to the window and pushing the curtain aside slightly. It was not yet completely dark, but Erica had already been up long enough to make the first attempts at getting in touch with her packmate. While K.T. had never considered himself a late riser, the young Ventrue must have been up as soon as the sun had hit the horizon. Slowly the mercenary scanned the street, then he turned back to his companion.

"We need new clothes," Erica pointed out, picking at the remains of her shirt. K.T. was vaguely aware of the steadily increasing number of bullet holes in his own clothing, but for now his wardrobe was a secondary concern at best. "After Jerry calls, we should head over to the Garment District. They have these great stores that are open all night and carry all the best fashions. A friend of mine runs one of them. And we can dress you in something a little less Wild West."

"I think I liked you better unconscious," K.T. grumbled, drawing his Ruger and opening the cylinders. "What we need are weapons, information, and that communiqué. Your fashion statement can wait for another night."

"I liked you better when you actually seemed concerned about me," Erica retorted. For a second K.T. thought he noticed something more in the Ventrue's tone than simple anger, but simply ignored it and emptied the chambers of his revolver into his hand. "For a minute this morning I almost thought you cared about something other than yourself. You really are a mercenary."

"Yes, I really am," K.T. stated evenly, examining the cylinders of his gun for dirt or debris. Erica glared at him for a moment, then turned to the window angrily and stared out of the dirty panes of glass.

K.T. looked u pas the phone rang, but had not even moved by the time Erica shot around the bed and grabbed the receiver.

"Jerry?" the Ventrue asked, almost before she had the receiver to her ear. K.T. assumed it was the Lasombra, as a big smile replaced the girl's angry pout. "Thank God! We thought you might have been killed! No, we're fine. K.T. managed to get the car started, and we barely got away from those Setites! Look, Jerry, I… I'm sorry we didn't try a little harder to get you. I didn't want to leave you behind, but…"

"But the voice of reason won out," K.T. finished as Erica stalled. The Ventrue glared over at him, but then returned her attention to the phone.

"Where are we?" Erica asked. "Canal Street. By the Holland Tunnel. No, don't worry, we'll come up and meet you. I want to hit the Garment District anyway. My clothes look like Swiss cheese right now! At Crystal's. Yeah, I'll meet you there. Bye!"

"All that worrying for nothing," K.T. stated as Erica hung up the phone. He put his bullets back into the Ruger, and stood up from the bed. "He's still alive."

"That doesn't mean leaving him behind was right," the Ventrue retorted. K.T. looked as if he was about to say something, but thought better of it and simply holstered the Ruger on his side.

"Are we ready to go?" the mercenary inquired curtly. Why he had bothered so much with Erica's welfare the night before was starting to bewilder him. Erica picked up her jacket from the bed and walked past him, seemingly not interested in being around him any more. Grumbling most of the curses he had learned through more than seventy years, K.T. followed her down to the street and caught up to her as she flagged down a taxi. Erica quickly climbed in, and K.T. followed suit. For the moment, Erica made a point of sliding as far across the black vinyl rear seat of the cab. K.T. sat down and leaned against the door of his side, noticing a large, orange turban sticking up over the front seat where the cab driver's head should be. Visible on the dash board past the front seat was a crown, an air freshener that was not doing much to cover the smell of vomit and cigarettes in the back seat.

"Twenty-eighth Street and Third Avenue," the Ventrue said. The cab driver said something that neither one of them understood, and turned back to them questioningly. K.T. shook his head in disgust. Erica tried again, this time speaking much slower. "Twenty-eighth Street. The Garment District?"

K.T. had no idea what the cab driver said, but Erica seemed to be satisfied with the incoherent mess of syllables. The cab pulled away from the curb and cut into traffic, heading back into Manhattan. K.T. fished through his pockets for a moment, and finally came up with a quarter. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Erica staring out of her window and K.T. examining the coin in his hand.

"So where are we going?" K.T. finally tried, rolling the quarter across his fingers out of boredom.

"A friend's place," Erica replied, her anger with the mercenary having long since faded. "She's a Toreador friend of mine from another pack. You'll like her."

"I'm certain," K.T. grumbled with a lack of enthusiasm, returning his attention to the coin in his hand. First Ventrue _antitribu_, now Toreador. One clan that the Gangrel all seemed to hate on a matter of principle were the elitist, art infatuated Toreador. Erica shrugged, and turned back to her window. Silence dominated the cab for a second time as the vehicle fought traffic up to Twenty-eighth Street. The driver finally pulled to the curb, and Erica and K.T. both got out of the cab. The mercenary glanced over at the Ventrue, and Erica shrugged.

"I, uh, don't have any money," she said with a slightly embarrassed smile. K.T. rolled his eyes in disgust and dug out the final money that he had taken from Stokes' body two nights ago. As soon as the driver had taken the fare and his tip, he pulled back into traffic, leaving the pair behind rapidly. K.T. turned back to Erica, waiting for her to lead them to her friend's store.

"Great," the Ventrue grumbled, looking up and down the street.. "That idiot dropped us off on the wrong block."

"Where's your friend's place?" K.T. asked, looking around.

"Just a block down and over," Erica replied, starting down Lexington Avenue. K.T. took one step after her when a large man seemingly stepped out of thin air from behind a lamp post, throwing one arm around Erica and turning her back to the Gangrel. Underneath the long, black leather overcoat that the man wore, a fairly large bulge betrayed the presence of a gun pointed at Erica's chest. 

"Ah, Mister Corben," the man said, a perfect, pure white smile on his ebon face. Thick black dreadlocks obscured anything more than his smile and his highly polished mirror shades. He advanced a step on the mercenary, bringing Erica along with him. "It 'as been so long since I 'ave seen you."

"Do I know you?" K.T. inquired, one hand already on his gun. From the man's thick Jamaican accent and his appearance, the mercenary could only guess that he was dealing with a member of the Followers of Set. Over the years, the Setites had infiltrated Haiti and the other Voodoo strongholds, taking newer recruits from the Voodoo priests and drug traffickers of those lands. The mercenary heard a shotgun being pumped behind him, and glanced back to see two more men to his back, their weapons only marginally concealed under their own long coats. The Jamaican smiled as he noticed K.T. taking stock of his rapidly worsening situation.

"We wish you no 'arm," the man holding Erica stated. A long black limousine pulled to the curb next to the mercenary, its window too darkly tinted for K.T. to see inside. "We 'ave somet'ing dat we would like to discuss wit' you. Maybe you would like to get in de car?"

"You a Setite?" K.T. inquired, already certain of the answer that he would receive. The man's smile broadened in reply, but he said nothing. "Then you can forget it. I don't deal with snakes."

"I'm afraid dat you don't 'ave any choice, dis time," the Jamaican pointed out. There was a slight pop and the man's coat rippled, and Erica screamed in pain as a bullet tore through her midsection. The Ventrue nearly collapsed in pain, but the Setite quickly supported her weight. "We mean you no 'arm, but dat does not mean dat we won't. Now please, in de car. We don't 'ave all night."

"What about her?" K.T. asked, nodding to Erica. His hand still remained on the grip of his Ruger, but he doubted that he would be able to cleanly outgun at least three Setites attacking him from different angles and then escape into the night with a wounded Ventrue.

"We will relieve you of dis rabble," the man replied, his smile becoming slightly wider. Still reeling from the wound she had just taken, Erica was in no condition to fight her way free.

"No deal," K.T. said after a short pause. "She comes with me or we can just gun each other down here."

There was an uneasy silence as the man's smile became a bit more malignant.

"We figured as much," he finally said. He released Erica, gently pushing her towards K.T. The Ventrue rushed to K.T.'s side, and glanced quickly between the three gunmen. "Now would you please bot' get in de car? I truly do not wish to kill you bot' right 'ere."

K.T. measured his options for a moment, and spotted a third and fourth member of the group lurking in the shadows of the alley to his left. Three with shotguns, and Erica still holding her side in pain. His situation was getting worse by the second. Finally without any other realistic choice, the Gangrel took a step to the car.

"What are you doing?" the Ventrue whispered harshly. "You're not actually going to do what they say, are you?"

"If I don't, we're both dead, and you know it," K.T. said. "I'll deal with the Setites up until the point where I can get away from them. Now get in the fucking car and don't do anything stupid."

Erica glared at the mercenary for a second, then glanced to the Setite. The Jamaican smiled and nodded, gesturing to the car. K.T. took one last look at the Setite, then finally ducked into the limousine. Without any other option, Erica reluctantly followed suit. As the door was shut behind her, the limousine pulled away from the curb.

As she sat down inside the limo, Erica glanced around her quickly, trying to discern her surroundings. The inside of the vehicle was almost pitch black, and the windows were so heavily tinted that it was practically impossible to see through them. The Ventrue could feel K.T. next to her, and slid a little bit closer, taking some comfort in the fact that the mercenary had proven himself as a more than capable fighter. While Erica could feel the presence of someone else in the back of the limousine, she had no idea where that person was, or what their intentions were.

A match flared to life across from the pair, lighting the face of another Jamaican. Unlike the man that had met them on the sidewalk, this man was far older, bald except for a bit of gray fuzz around the sides of his head. The man lit a large cigar held firmly in his mouth, the flame casting the deep crow's feet around his eyes into shadows that made his vague smile seem even more sinister. As K.T. watched, the old Jamaican took a long puff of his freshly lit cigar, and blew a smoke ring into the air. Finally, he appraised K.T. through his dark, oddly amiable eyes.

"Ah, so you're K.T. Corben," he said, looking the Gangrel over. "Please, take your 'and out of your coat, I 'ave no wish to be shot in de middle of a pleasant conversation."

"Who are you?" K.T. asked, reluctantly doing as he was told and watching his host carefully. While there were no visible guards in the limousine, the mercenary was certain that the Setite would not leave himself open to attack.

"Patrice Beladeau," Erica said next to him, her voice low. She knew him well enough; as the leader of the Setites in New York City and a main player in the heroin trade through the five boroughs, he was infamous throughout the Sabbat as one of their main enemies.

"Dat I am," Patrice said. "I should 'ave known you'd recognize me, after your filt'y kind took my business interests from me." He turned back to K.T. "And now, I 'ave a business proposition for you."

"I don't deal with snakes," K.T. said evenly.

"Yes, you 'ad mentioned somet'ing about dat outside," Patrice said. "But I t'ink I 'ave somet'ing dat may change your mind."

"We're not dealing with you, and that's final" Erica stated, folding her arms across her chest in a display of defiance. Patrice turned to her, a look of utter contempt on his face.

"Was I speaking to you, childe?" Patrice asked sternly, the shadows playing across his face making him seem truly demonic. Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, the Setite's use of the discipline of presence made him seem overtly terrifying and threatening. Erica shrank away from the Setite, trying to choke down her fear. Patrice turned back to K.T., a faint smile on his face. "Now, as I was saying, we wish similar ends. Bot' of us know somet'ing is going on wit'in de Black 'and."

"Oh really," K.T. said. Patrice nodded, a slight smile on his face as he puffed away on his cigar. 

"Oh yes," the Setite confirmed. He held up a partially burnt piece of paper. "It might be why you were looking for dis last night at 'er pack's communal 'aven."

"Is that what I think it is?" K.T. asked, looking from the paper to the Setite. Patrice nodded. 

"You stole that from us!" Erica exclaimed, reaching for it. Patrice pulled it back with a grin.

"I stole not'ing," the Setite countered. "We merely felt it should be read, rader dan burned.""I think it will do as compensation for trying to put a lot of bullets through me last night," K.T. said, looking at the Setite. Patrice chuckled a little.

"Oh, come now, Mister Corben, you are running wit' a pack of Sabbat," the Setite pointed out. "If you 'ad come to us, we could 'ave avoided de 'ole situation. But what concerns me may concern you, as well. After all, are you not de target of someone who t'inks 'e is an Assamite?"

"The situation sounds familiar," K.T. replied. 

"We may know 'o 'e is," Patrice said. "But you get no 'elp from us unless you 'elp us wit' dis very same group."

"Like he said, we don't work with snakes," Erica stated, finally regaining her courage in the face of the old Setite. Patrice turned to her, a look of disgust in his eyes.

"You will speak only when spoken to, like a good childe," the Jamaican stated sternly. Erica tried to remain defiant, but once again the Setite's powerful aura of fear pushed her back in her seat. "De only reason you are still alive is because Mister Corben decided not to 'ave you killed. I t'ink it was a most regrettable decision on 'is part. Now shut your mout' and leave de business to de men."

"You just want help," K.T. stated, diverting the Jamaican's attention from terrorizing the young Ventrue. "What kind of help do you want?"

"You can't be serious!" Erica exclaimed, turning on the mercenary. Shock overrode her fear of Patrice as she gaped at her partner.

"Please, Erica, keep out of this for now," K.T. said. Erica simply continued staring at the Gangrel, too stunned by his consideration of the Setites' offer to argue.

"We do not ask for much," Patrice stated, a slight smile coming to his face. "We just ask for information. When you come upon it, you will tell us. In return, we can 'elp you wit' your little friend and any oders 'o may come to try and kill you."

"So I do all the dirty work, and you make some vague promise of protection," K.T. summed up. "I think I'd get a better offer from the Sabbat right now."

"Come now, Mister Corben," Patrice stated. "We can keep you safe. We 'ave safe 'ouses all t'rough de five boroughs. We 'ave weapons, supplies, and blood. Our retainers will guard you during de day, and at night we can provide everyt'ing you need."

"Let me see the paper," K.T. said.

"I t'ink you can 'ave dat after you agree to my terms," Patrice said. "After all, we may need it if you decide not to 'elp us."

"But I still don't know if you actually have what I think you have," K.T. said. "Now let me see it, or you can just stop the car."

"Very well," Patrice said. He held out the paper, and allowed K.T. to see it, but snatched it back before the Gangrel could make out more than a few words. "Does dat set your mind at ease?"

"No, it doesn't," K.T. replied.

"Dat will 'ave to do for now," Patrice said.

"Then you can let us out here," K.T. stated. Patrice shrugged.

"A disappointment," Patrice said. "Very well. Driver, pull over."

The limo came to a stop, and Patrice gestured to the door. Erica pushed her way out of the vehicle without so much as a second glance at the old Setite. K.T. moved to the door, but then stopped and glanced back at Patrice. He was far too willing to let the pair simply walk away, but K.T. could not figure the angle he was playing. Finally, the mercenary got out of the limousine and shut the door. Erica collided with him as he turned around, trying frantically to get back into the car. The limousine pulled away from the pair rapidly, leaving them on a wooded lane.

"Come back here!" Erica screamed, racing a few steps after the receding car. "You can't leave us here! Come back!"

K.T. looked around him quickly, searching for some kind of threat in the trees around him. They were in Central Park, judging by the heavily wooded surroundings, but the Gangrel could see no immediate cause for panic. The biggest threat that K.T. thought he would come across in the park were a few mortal gang members, or maybe even the odd Sabbat Brujah, but the mercenary was certain that he could outgun any problem that would arise in the park. Erica, however, was clearly panicked as she turned back to her partner.

"We have to get out of here," she said quickly, grabbing K.T.'s arm. "Come on!"

"What's the matter?" K.T. asked. "I think I can handle a few muggers or gang bangers."

"I'm not worried about that!" Erica said. She opened her mouth to continue, but a bloodcurdling howl cut her off. K.T.'s blood froze as he heard it. He had only heard it a handful of times before, but that was enough to strike fear into his heart.

"Shit," K.T. breathed, drawing his gun and quickly glancing around. He started to make his way up the road, away from the sound of the first howl, his pace unconsciously increasing as he kept his eyes on the darkness around him. A second howl went up from his left, somewhere in the trees and far closer than the Gangrel would have liked it. Erica had drawn her Glock, but the Gangrel knew that, if it came down to a fight, they were as good as dead. The last thing K.T., a member of the only clan that had ever been able to call the werewolves allies in even the loosest sense of the word, was to be stuck in forestland, even Central Park, against the true masters of the wild. More howls went up, to the left and the right, in front and behind, making K.T. fight to keep his nerves and not break and run directly into a Lupine trap. He glanced back to Erica as she lost her cool and sprinted into the darkness, trying to escape the inevitable attack from their unseen pursuers.

"Erica, wait!" K.T. shouted, rushing after the terrified Ventrue. He could just make out the wall between the park and Fifth Avenue on his right, but Erica was bearing to the left. The mercenary barely caught up to Erica and pulled her to a stop by her arm. "You're going the wrong way!"

"We have to get out of here!" she exclaimed, panic stricken. "We have to get out before they find us!"

"Too late," an inhuman growl stated behind them.

**V**

K.T. turned slowly, trying his best to put on a brave face despite his mounting fear. Erica backed into him in terror, losing any last shred of self control that she may have had left. K.T. was frozen by the monster looming on the trail, locking eyes with the cold, predatory gaze of the killing machine in front of him.

It stood over nine feet tall, with fur as black as night covering its powerful muscles and long, sharp teeth in its canine maw. Long talons tipped its huge hands, but those natural weapons were a secondary concern as the Gangrel kept one eye on the monstrous, glittering dagger it held in its hand. The werewolf took a step towards the pair, growling as it glared at its targets. K.T. drew his Ruger, but he doubted that the weapon would do much good against the Lupine. All the Gangrel could hope for was to get one good shot in before the black furred monstrosity tore him to pieces.

But the werewolf did not attack. As K.T. watched, the creature began to shrink, become less wolflike and more humanlike, but the transformation did not carry the Lupine back to his completely human form. Instead, the werewolf now stood only seven feet tall, bot as broad but still heavily muscled and huge by any human standard, and looked something like the Neanderthal man. K.T. had heard that werewolves could assume the forms of both prehistoric men and primitive, huge wolves, but the mercenary had never wanted to be around the Lupines long enough to test that theory.

"I am Roar of Thunder, Adren, Homid Shadow Lord Ahroun," the werewolf said in a guttural voice that was barely human. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"W-we were j-just leaving," Erica stammered, terrified. She would have bolted if K.T. had not been in her path, but it would have done her little good. The mercenary was certain that there were other werewolves watching them, and that they would be torn to pieces at the first sign of outright panic. As it was, K.T. was wondering why he was still alive and speaking with the werewolf, rather than making his last stand on the road.

"They smell you, you know," he growled. "They smell your Wyrm tainted presence. What are you doing here?"

"We know too much," K.T. started, deciding that a little honesty and a few misleading statements held the best chance, slim as it was, of getting out of the park alive. From what K.T. knew about the different tribes of werewolves, the Shadow Lords were the most likely of all Lupines to strike deals with creatures that they considered to be tainted by the Wyrm, some kind of spiritual destroyer of the earth, for their own gain. Maybe, if the mercenary could convince this werewolf that his survival would be more detrimental to the vampires of New York City than his death, Roar of Thunder would let them live. "The vampires of the city want our deaths, and so they dropped us off here for you to do their dirty work."

The werewolf paused for a moment, considering the information that K.T. had provided, searching for some kind of trick in the words. Another howl sounded from someplace close by.

"What kind of information?" the Shadow Lord inquired, watching the mercenary for any signs of a lie. K.T. thought quickly, coming up with something that would at least sound true.

"We know something about the Black Hand, something that they don't want us to know," the mercenary replied. It was true enough; he must know something that was sensitive to the Sabbat's assassins. The only problem was, he did not know what that information was. Quickly he raced to find something more to add to his vague statement. "We think they might be plotting to overthrow the Sabbat in the city, and so they're trying to kill us."

"Really," the Shadow Lord said, skeptically.

"It's true!" Erica exclaimed, terror edging her voice. "In Caine's name, please believe us, it's true!"

The werewolf chuckled, but K.T. did not find any humor in his tone.

"You can go," he said. He nodded to the path beyond them. "The closest exit to the park is that way. I suggest you hurry, though, or Strikes With Rage may find you."

"Strikes With Rage?" Erica repeated, looking around fearfully. A low, guttural growl erupted extremely close, causing her to jump. The Shadow Lord stepped aside, and bowed deeply. K.T. and Erica quickly took off for the exit from the park.

K.T. had not even covered a yard when he heard the howls almost immediately behind him. The mercenary hazarded a glance over his shoulder and saw a huge, grayish brown wolf charging along the path after him, its body easily the size of a small pony. Erica sprinted for all she was worth, and without thinking K.T. called upon the powers of his blood to fuel his discipline of celerity, passing the Ventrue by at three times the speed of even the fastest human. The mercenary was nearly at the gate when he threw one last glance over his shoulder. Erica had fallen far behind him, losing ground quickly to the monstrous wolf that was bearing down on her. More wolves appeared behind the first one, and even at her current, terror driven pace Erica would never reach the safety of Fifth Avenue in time. Fighting against his own natural instinct and his fear of the Lupines, K.T. skidded to a stop and whirled around, drawing his Ruger and hoping that the bullets would slow the Lupines long enough for the two vampires to escape with their lives.

Erica sprinted for all she was worth, but she already knew that she would never reach the gate before the werewolf behind her dragged her down. K.T. had flown past her only seconds before, already practically outside of the park, leaving her to fend for herself against the monsters behind her. She could practically feel the werewolf's breath on her back when she finally spun around, backpedaling as she fired her Glock wildly into the Lupine's snarling face and gaping maw. Her bullets had little effect on the monster as it charged in, opening its jaws in preparation to tear the Ventrue apart. Erica tried to spin back to the gate but failed, tripping her self up and falling to the ground even as the huge werewolf pounced.

The boom of a cannon tore through the werewolf's howl of bloodlust, and the monster's leap was cut short by almost a foot as K.T. opened up with his Ruger. Erica's shoulder hit the ground for only the briefest instant before the Gangrel was yanking her back to her feet, hauling her up and over one shoulder. The Gangrel turned and sprinted for the gate one more time, his celerity carrying the two of them just ahead of the werewolf and two of its packmates. Erica fired wildly behind her at the monsters, but even her cover fire and the mercenary's supernatural speed combined seemed to be losing out to the rage driven charge of the werewolves. The gate was only a few yards ahead, but the werewolves were nearly a foot behind, gaining ground with each step.

K.T. poured every last ounce of strength into one final burst of speed, practically feeling the werewolves ready to pounce. The Gangrel shot through the gate only an inch ahead of his pursuers, feeling the jaws of the lead werewolf close on the fringe of his duster and nearly yanking him back into the park. Cloth tore and the mercenary was practically spun around, but K.T. pulled himself free and raced across Fifth Avenue. Horns sounded and cars screeched to a halt as the Gangrel blew across the street, but a car accident or the enmity of one or two drivers was far preferable to being torn apart by the Lupines. The mercenary finally came to a halt as he crashed into the brick wall of a building on the opposite side of the road, and slowly let Erica down off of his shoulder. Leaning back against the building, K.T. looked back to the park, past the drivers who were cursing his recklessness. Three men stood just inside the park gate, watching him with hatred in their eyes. Erica refused to look back, simply resting her head against the wall and breathing a quick thanks to Caine for saving her. Finally, as the mercenary watched, the three Lupines melted back into the shadows of the park, unwilling to chase their prey any further.

"Fucking Christ," K.T. stated, finally calming down. "Never, ever, do I take a job in New York again."

"Are they gone?" Erica asked, still unwilling to look back to the park.

"For now, I think so," K.T. answered, his own voice still slightly shaky. "But I'd rather not wait around to find out. Let's get down to your friend in the Garment District."

"I don't think that's an option," an all too familiar voice suddenly stated. K.T. turned quickly, trying to keep his Ruger both available and hidden under his duster. The assassin was once again standing in front of him, his shotgun in hand as he strode forward. "You have not yet paid for your crimes."

"I'd love to know how you keep finding me," K.T. stated, tensing for the attack that he knew was coming. At such close range, neither he nor the assassin would miss, but the shotgun shells were going to hurt a whole lot more than the .44 magnum rounds that his Ruger fired. The mercenary could only hope that Erica would be able to finish off the assassin before he could recover, or his miraculous escape from the werewolves would mean nothing.

"Well, you know, I'm just good like that," the assassin said proudly. He gave a deep, theatrical bow to the pair, throwing his shotgun out wide and catching the attention of the other people on the street for the first time. Sirens could already be heard in the distance, and the mercenary knew that they were responding to the shots he and Erica had fired only minutes ago inside the park. He had very little time to try to both defeat the assassin and escape the police. Without any more time to lose, the mercenary brought his gun up quickly and blasted away at the assassin.

The assassin reacted as soon as the mercenary's gun came up, dodging quickly to the left and loosing both barrels of his shotgun. K.T. barely dodged out of the way, feeling buckshot tear through the sleeve of his duster and skim off the skin of his arm as he backed up and rolled along the wall of the building behind him. Erica drew and fired as well, but the assassin remained the faster, somersaulting under her first three shots and coming up with his Skorpion to loose a burst of fire at the young Ventrue. Erica dove back into a narrow alleyway even as K.T. fired again at the assassin, but his opponent seemed to sense the attack coming and twirled to the right of the next round. K.T. used the second that his shot had given him and rushed into the alley where Erica had taken cover, grabbing the Ventrue by the arm as she tried to return to the fight. 

"Forget that!" K.T. ordered, hearing the sirens of the police practically on top of the gunfight. "Let's get out of here now!"

Erica almost seemed relieved by the idea, and the two sprinted through the alley for Fourth Avenue. Once on that street, they turned south, running for the Garment District and hoping that they had lost the assassin in the confusion. They stopped running ten blocks later, and K.T. watched the street for a long moment.

"Well," he finally said, "it seems like he either gave up or got arrested. "How far to your friend's place?"

"Not too far," Erica replied, looking up at the street signs. They were down to Forty-eighth Street, which could be considered the northern fringes of the Garment District. "Just a few more minutes, and over to Third Avenue, and we're right there."

"Too bad you'll never get there," someone said behind the pair. K.T. and Erica both whirled, guns drawn, on a trio of horribly disfigured men dressed in pinstriped suits. Each one held a Tommy gun at the ready, completing their look of gangsters from the twenties. "We don't like trespassers, especially not ones that fraternize with the Followers of Set."

"Wow, this night is just getting better and better," K.T. grumbled. Their hideous looks identified the three men easily as vampires of Clan Nosferatu. While K.T. might have been surprised to find out that the three vampires knew of his discussion with Beladeau if they were members of a different clan, the Nosferatu were the information brokers of the vampire world, and seemed to know everything that was happening in their home cities. The mercenary glanced over to the nearest alley that could afford cover, judging the distance quickly. If the three Nosferatu got trigger happy, it was going to be a slim chance at best to reach cover before he was hit by gunfire.

"Shit, they're one of Cordoba's packs," Erica said quietly. "Any bright ideas?"

"Get ready to run," K.T. answered simply, tensing to fire.

"Great plan," Erica commented sarcastically.

"So, do you want to beg for your lives before we finish you off?" another of the Nosferatu asked around the cigar clenched in his teeth. He tipped his fedora back slightly on his head as he prepared to fire.

"Guys, come on!" Erica exclaimed, trying her best to be friendly as she took a step in front of K.T. The mercenary edged slightly towards the alley as the Ventrue bought them a little time. "Look, we didn't want to have anything to do with the Setites! I mean, they even dumped us in the middle of Central Park while the werewolves were out! Come on, guys, just put the guns down and we can sort this out."

"It's a little late for that," the third Nosferatu said. "We know you're cooperating with the Setites. I always thought Bonifay was a little too slick for his own good."

"That didn't work quite the way I planned it," Erica said, backing up a step to K.T.'s side. The Nosferatu raised their Tommy guns to fire. "Should I start running yet?"

"You're still here?" K.T. asked in reply.

The Nosferatu opened up as K.T. shoved Erica to the alley, hitting the mercenary in the chest and the shoulder before he could return fire on his opponents. The mercenary spun with the shots and dropped to the ground, blasting away wildly with his Ruger before he even hit the sidewalk. One of the Nosferatu dropped face first to the ground as K.T. blew the man's knee apart, but the mercenary was raked with automatic fire before he could roll to the side. The Nosferatu with the fedora dropped back next, one of K.T.'s rounds punching through the vampire's stomach at his belt line. The mercenary staggered to one knee and tried to fire again, but the final Nosferatu knocked him back with a final burst of gunfire, finally overcoming the supernatural endurance that K.T.'s vampiric discipline of fortitude provided him. Falling flat on his back, K.T. reached for his monstrous revolver and closed his hand around the grip, but a wing tip shoe came down on top of his wrist before the mercenary could raise the weapon and fire. K.T. looked up into the face of the last Nosferatu and the Tommy gun aimed at his face.

"You're a tough bastard," the Nosferatu stated, looking over the mauled Gangrel. Then he grinned. "Say goodnight, Gracie."

The grin disappeared with the crack of a Glock and the explosion of the back of the Nosferatu's head. As the deformed vampire fell backwards, K.T. dragged himself to his feet to see Erica opening up wildly from the alley, driving the other two Nosferatu back to the cover of the cars parked along the street. The mercenary started to crawl towards the alley, trying his best to heal the grievous wounds he had taken, but Erica was suddenly by his side, throwing him over her shoulder and rushing back for the cover of the buildings. The Ventrue raced through the alley and continued for almost five minutes, finally stopping beside a mailbox set on Second Avenue. K.T. dropped unceremoniously off of the Ventrue's shoulder, rolling onto his back and groaning in pain. Erica leaned against the mailbox, still watching the streets around them to be certain that Cordoba's Nosferatu pack had given up on the chase. Finally, the Ventrue turned back to K.T., and helped him to sit up against the mailbox.

"Jesus Christ," Erica stated, looking over the sheer number of bullet holes in K.T.'s clothing. The Gangrel had taken a true beating at the hands of the Nosferatu, one that she doubted most vampires would have survived through. As it was, K.T. had lost so much blood through the fight that he could no longer heal his grievous wounds. "Are you alright?"

"What time is it?" the Gangrel asked, pain obvious in his voice.

"Midnight," Erica replied, a bit puzzled. "Why?"

"I just want this night to end before someone else shoots me," K.T. groaned. Despite herself, Erica started to laugh. "I'm glad you find this funny."

"I can't help it," Erica giggled. K.T. leaned back against the mailbox, and then started to laugh a little himself.

"Okay, so who haven't we gotten angry at us yet?" K.T. asked. "We'll go have them shoot at us tomorrow."

Erica simply laughed even more, and K.T. slumped to the ground, laughing quietly to himself.

"Come on," the Ventrue finally said through her mirth, pulling him to his feet.

"Ow!" K.T. gasped.

"We have to get to my friend's place before Jerry thinks we died," Erica stated. Do you think you can make it?"

"I should," K.T. said. "Just as long as no one else puts a hole in me."

"Don't worry," Erica said. "I don't think the downtown area is angry with us yet. Do you need help?"

"No, I'll be alright," K.T. replied, finally standing on his own. "Okay, lead the way. And let's get there before someone realizes that I should be dead."

The corner of Twenty-eighth Street and Third Avenue marked the southern fringes of the Garment District, still famous for its many clothing factories and stores. As Erica rounded a final corner and led K.T. along the sidewalk of East Twenty-eighth, the mercenary could already see the bright, blue neon sign blinking above a set of wide glass doors, proclaiming the store as the Modern Woman. The six foot windows running along the gray stone walls of the squat, square building showed off a variety of dresses and accessories, and even at the late hour people still walked in and out of the clothing outlet. While a Toreador owned fashion store was the last place the Gangrel ever wanted to be found, he was reasonably certain that no one would be waiting inside for him with a gun.

"Finally," Erica stated, turning back to the mercenary as she reached the glass doors of the building. "We should be safe here for a while."

"Wonderful," K.T. grumbled as Erica pushed through the glass doors and walked inside. K.T. sighed in resignation, then followed the Ventrue into the store.

The inside of the Modern Woman was a huge, two tiered display room painted in a dozen neon colors, full of dresses that barely left anything to the imagination when worn on a woman. Erica seemed to forget about the mercenary as she made her way quickly to the rear, disappearing behind racks of clothing. K.T. stopped in the wide center aisle, remaining only a few feet in from the doors as his eyes quickly scanned the room. Two young women looked down at him for a moment from the second level, but quick, cold glance from the Gangrel turned their suspicious glances back to the garments set along the walls.

"Crystal!" he heard Erica say after a moment or two. "How've you been? Is Jerry here?"

"Jerry's in the back," he heard a fairly high voice say in reply. "What happened to you? And why are you dressed so blah? Didn't I teach you anything about fashion?"

"Well, we've been having some problems, in case the bullet holes didn't give it away," Erica said. "Me and K.T. here have been having some problems."

Even as K.T. heard her last statement, Erica came back into view, appearing on his left with a stunningly beautiful young woman that could only be Crystal. Dressed in a skin tight, neon blue dress with a neckline that dipped down to the middle of her perfect breasts, Crystal was everything a mortal could want; full chest, toned body, great legs, with sparkling blue eyes and beautiful shoulder length auburn hair to go with it. K.T. would have assumed that the girl had been a model but for her height; even in two inch heels she stood only as tall as Erica. The mercenary suddenly realized he was staring, and quickly put on a dour expression.

"I guess you're K.T.," Crystal said, eyeing him up with a coy smile. The mercenary nodded. "Nice to meet you. I'm Crystal."

"Nice to meet you," K.T. echoed.

"I bet it is," Crystal stated with a smirk, letting the mercenary know that she had caught him staring a moment before. The Toreador's eyes lingered on K.T. for a long moment, leveling an almost seductive gaze on him, but then she turned back to Erica. "Now," she started, appraising the Ventrue's torn and holed jeans and sweatshirt, "what can we get you to wear that actually complements your figure?"

"Oh, I don't know," Erica replied thoughtfully, looking around at the displays. "I need something dark, subdued, but still sexy."

"If you don't mind, I think I'll go talk with Jerry," K.T. said, wondering if he would ever leave the store again. Erica and Crystal would probably spend hours looking for just the perfect dress.

"You don't want to help me pick out a dress?" Erica asked, taking an obvious pleasure in the mercenary's distaste with his surroundings.

"No," K.T. replied emphatically. He quickly made his way past the pair, casting a sidelong withering glance at Erica's playful smirk. Quickly the mercenary made his way to a large glass checkout counter in the rear, where Jerry was leaning on the cash register and spinning a coin on the countertop. As the Gangrel made his way to the Lasombra, Jerry smiled slightly.

"You look like hell, mercenary," Jerry informed his ally. "I thought I was really in trouble when I started to hear reports about gunfire in a straight line from here to Central Park."

"It was not a fun night," K.T. stated simply. "I'm about to go mad with hunger, and your little Ventrue playmate wants to go shopping."

"Sometimes I think she's Toreador," Jerry said with a bit of a chuckle. Jerry took a closer look at the mercenary, and noticed that several of K.T.'s wounds still had not healed. "Damn, you are in bad shape," the Lasombra said, growing serious.

"It was not a fun night," K.T. repeated. "I need to feed or Erica becomes dinner."

"Crystal might have someone lying around," Jerry said. "She's Toreador. _Antitribu_, at any rate. I'll go check."

"Thanks," K.T. said, leaning on the counter. Jerry disappeared into the store, leaving the mercenary to deal with both his ravenous hunger and the pain from his unhealed bullet wounds. K.T. looked back into the store for a moment, hoping that Jerry would return soon with word of where the mercenary could find a meal, then stuffed his hands into his duster pockets and settled back against the wall. "I have no idea what I could possibly have done to deserve this," the mercenary muttered, staring at the ceiling. He glanced back as he heard Crystal walking back to him with a smile on her face.

"Jerry says you're hungry," the Toreador said, leaning down on the counter and offering the mercenary a view of her chest. K.T. nodded, refusing to get suckered in by Crystal's little games of seduction. Regardless of how long the Toreador had been a vampire, her moves were smooth and just overt enough to get attention while not being blatant. "Well, I think I have just the thing for you. Come on. Let's head downstairs."

K.T. stood up and followed Crystal back through a small door behind the counter and down a narrow, dimly lit flight of stairs. Crystal stopped at the bottom and unlocked a second, plain metal door that led into a wide, sparsely illuminated basement. The floor was made of loose gravel, while the walls still appeared to be rough hewn stone. The room was bare except for an odd looking alter of black stone to his left, holding a chalice and a small copper bowl. 

"Your storage facilities could use a little work," K.T. noted flatly.

"This is a subbasement," Crystal explained as she started along a thin plywood bridge. At the other end was yet another door, this one a sturdy wooden door bound with blackened iron. "The storage basement is actually above us. I use this for impromptu get togethers with my pack, when we need a place to hide out. It's not much, but the others like it."

K.T. nodded, and Crystal led him across the plywood planks to the door on the opposite side of the room. The Toreador produced her keys again, and unlocked two locks on the door. She pushed the heavy door open, and led the way into the new chamber. K.T. followed, wondering how many more doors and damp, cold basements he would have to negotiate just to find dinner.

Inside the bound door was a workshop of clean, dry walls and a linoleum floor fit for nearly any artist. Several dresses, finished and unfinished, clothed mannequin bodies standing on the left side of the room. Against the far wall was an easel and paints, and a half finished painting of blacks and blues on a gray canvas. A single, ornate stained glass lamp hung directly over the center of the room, illuminating a large, heavy table and a body on top of it. From the way the skin and bone of the face had been mangled and disfigured beyond recognition, the Gangrel could barely tell from his head whether the body was laying on its stomach or back, and refused to believe it could be alive until the body moaned in pain. K.T. simply stared with disgust at the sight, then turned to Crystal. The Toreador wore an expression of disappointment on her face as she regarded her mortal victim.

"He's a failure," she said, shrugging. "I had hoped for something good to come out of this sculpture, but, alas, even the greatest of artists are sometimes not perfect. You may as well put him out of his misery."

K.T. had met a couple of Toreador _antitribu_ before, but this was the first time he had really gotten the chance to see what they considered "art". While they were as artistic as their Camarilla brethren, they tended to be artistic in a far darker way, including torture, mutilation, and all things macabre in their repertoire. K.T. looked at her for a long moment, then walked up to the barely conscious man and tilted his neck to one side. He sank his fangs into the man's neck and drained every last drop of blood from him, then stood up. Crystal was leaning back against the now closed door, her smile replaced with an almost hungry look.

"Thank you," the Gangrel stated, straightening up and directing his blood to the last of his injuries. "I feel a lot better now."

"That's good," Crystal said, standing up straight. Slowly she crossed the floor to the mercenary, locking eyes with him as she approached. The Toreador began to wrap her arms around his waist as she reached him, but K.T. backed off quickly, suspicion rising to his face.

"What are you doing?" the mercenary asked. Crystal smiled.

"You know, I make it a policy to get to know most of my clientele before they leave," Crystal replied, keeping pace with K.T. as he took another step backward. "I've never been with a Gangrel before. What do you say, big guy?"

"I say tonight isn't going to be your first night with one," K.T. replied, finally standing his ground. Crystal nearly laughed.

"You mean to tell me, that after you spent all that time upstairs drooling at me, that you have no interest in me?" the Toreador asked. "Look, Erica won't know what's going on down here, if that's what you're worried about. She just thinks you're getting blood." Crystal closed the last foot of distance between the two, slowly drawing one finger along the mercenary's chest. "Come on, K.T. Have a little fun."

"This has nothing to do with Erica," K.T. pointed out, catching Crystal's wrist and pushing her hand away. "There is no way in hell that I'm sharing blood with you."

"Share blood?" Crystal echoed, confused. Then she smiled in realization. "Silly Gangrel, I don't want your blood. I want something more… carnal."

"You're sick," K.T. stated, backing off again. He had originally thought that Crystal wanted to share blood, the vampiric equivalent of sex. But to actually want to have sex was something else. Several young vampires, unable to come to grips with the fact that sex was inevitably frustrating and fruitless, still tried anyway, hoping to find some way to make the act as pleasurable as it had been in their mortal days. Toreador invariably led the way among nymphomaniacs.

"You don't think it'll work?" Crystal asked, once again acting surprised. Then she smiled, and once more put her arms around the Gangrel. "It does work, K.T. As long as you know how to do it right, that is. Come on, K.T. Give it a try. You'll have fun, I promise."

"No," K.T. said, shaking off both Crystal's natural beauty and the supernatural presence she was subtly applying. "Now let's get back upstairs."

"Had to think about that one, didn't you?" Crystal asked, leaning up against him. She was becoming more and more insistent, almost desperate. Slowly she began to work the Gangrel's duster off of his shoulders. "Come on. I bet it's been more than a decade since you've been with someone. Come on. Just a quickie."

Crystal stopped and looked down as she felt the barrel of a gun press into her stomach and heard a familiar click.

"Are you getting the message?" K.T. asked. Crystal nodded, looking far more disappointed and annoyed than frightened. K.T. dropped the hammer of the Ruger slowly, and tucked the gun away.

"Man with an iron will," Jerry said from the doorway. K.T. turned quickly to see both the Lasombra and Erica standing in the doorway. "I thought something interesting had to be going on down here."

"Well, there isn't," Crystal stated, her voice full of disappointment and sullen anger with the mercenary. She walked quickly past the two vampires at the doorway and headed back upstairs without another word. Jerry chuckled, but Erica appeared to be dumbstruck by the situation.

"I mean it, you definitely are dead," Jerry said to K.T., smiling. The Gangrel glared at him for a long moment as he turned to head up the stairs. Erica remained in the doorway, looking at him intently.

"So, you, well, are you full?" she finally managed to ask. K.T. looked at her for a long moment.

"I'm fine," he said. "How about you?"

"Me? I'll hold out," Erica said. "I was kind of hoping to get over to the Tunnel tonight. I know a few people there, and I'm sure I can find someone nice enough to donate some blood to me."

"Alright," K.T. said, tucking the Ruger back into his holster.

"Fine," Erica said with a forced laugh. She smoothed out the black leather skirt she was wearing, and modeled off it and the white blouse she had on, knotted just above her navel. "You like it?"

"Why don't you find something more useful to wear?" K.T. asked. "In case you didn't notice, we've been chased all over lower Manhattan tonight. Jeans and sneakers would be better for now."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Erica said, sounding a bit annoyed with him now. She turned quickly and started back along the walkway before the Gangrel could say another word. K.T. watched her go for a moment, but then shook his head before he read any more into the situation.

"This night keeps getting better and better," he muttered, starting for the stairs himself.

**VI**

Located on Twenty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue, the Tunnel was far more identifiable by sound than by sight. The blaring, deafening music of the club preceded it by almost three blocks, leading K.T. and his two Sabbat allies along the fringes of the Flatiron District to an unremarkable building of brown brick set in one of the Flatiron's commercial strips. The thundering bass beat of the club music inside threatened to shake the building apart by sheer volume, but that seemed only to draw more partygoers to the long, two and three person wide line outside the double doors leading into the establishment. As K.T. saw the line, he was certain that he was going to lose most of the night just waiting to get into the club. The mercenary turned to Jerry, ready to talk the Lasombra into finding a less crowded place to feed, but Jerry was already heading for the front of the line with Erica in tow. As the two vampires tried to walk into the club, a large, barrel chested bouncer appeared in their way

"Where do you two think you're going?" the bouncer asked evenly, acting as tough as possible. Jerry simply flashed an amiable smile at the far larger man, but the bouncer took a visible step back.

"Well, inside, actually," the Lasombra answered, pointing past the bouncer to the darkened interior of the Tunnel. The bouncer seemed uncertain how to react as Jerry used the vampiric discipline known as presence to supernaturally increase his charisma and charm. Jerry took out his wallet and peeled off a pair of twenties as the bouncer tried to figure out what to do. "Here you go. This should cover me and my two friends. Could you step aside, please?"

"Uh, yessir," the bouncer replied meekly, moving out of Jerry's way. Jerry and Erica quickly entered the club, and K.T. reluctantly followed.

The inside of the Tunnel was built for dancing. Taking a moment to brace himself against the overpowering speaker system of the club, K.T. glanced around the darkened interior, scanning his surroundings. The main dance floor of the Tunnel dominated the huge, cavernous main room of the club, lined on either side by long bars. Strobe lights flashed through the crowds from over a dozen different ceiling locations, cutting bright, multicolored swaths through the darkness at irregular intervals. On the opposite side of the dance floor, set back against the walls, a dozen or so metal tables and square, uncomfortable chairs, many already occupied by drunken couples and groups of underage kids taking a break from the wild dancing on the main floor. K.T. kept one eye on the crowd as he made his way to Erica and Jerry, standing near the dance floor and gazing out over the crowds in search of possible victims for the night. Jerry tapped him on the shoulder, and K.T.'s gaze dropped to the shorter Lasombra.

"Well, I have one or two people to find," he shouted over the music, though his attention was fixed on a redhead by the bar who was smiling back at him. K.T. followed his line of sight, and nodded. "I'll meet you back here in about forty minutes!"

Jerry started after the redhead before K.T. or Erica could say a word.

"See you then!" Erica shouted to him, and started off on a search for her own victim. Left alone for the moment and still relatively full of blood, he started to make his way through the Tunnel to the tables and chairs in the back. After fighting his way through the throngs of people making their way to and from the dance floor, the mercenary managed to find an unoccupied table and dropped into a chair a few feet from a group of heavily tattooed punks downing shots of some kind of bright green alcohol.

"You got a smoke?" K.T. asked, shouting to be heard over the music as he tapped the nearest punk on the shoulder. The kid reluctantly knocked a Newport out of his pack and lit the cigarette as K.T. put it to his lips. The punks turned back to their drinking games without a word to the mercenary, and K.T. began to watch the crowd for any signs of danger. He had already spent far too much time in one night getting chased by a bewildering array of enemies that included the Followers of Set, the werewolves of Central Park, Sabbat Nosferatu, and, once again, the insane assassin he had met on his first night in the city. K.T. took a long drag off of his cigarette and stared out into the crowds, his eyes finally coming to rest on a young, attractive blonde half walking and half stumbling over to him from the dance floor.

"Hi!" she said, shouting over the music. "Wanna dance?"

"No," K.T. replied.

"What?" the blonde asked, not hearing him through the noise.

"I said no!" K.T. shouted back, much louder. The girl took on a pleading look as she continued to press her case.

"Come on!" she exclaimed. "It'll be fun! Besides, you're cute! I like you!"

"Go away!" K.T. shouted. The girl smiled, and suddenly K.T. felt the barrel of a gun press into his back.

"Then maybe you'd be interested in some fresh air," a much deeper and definitely male voice suggested from behind him. The voice was familiar, but the mercenary could not yet discern the gunman's identity. "Don't turn around, don't reach for the big revolver under your coat, just follow the pretty girl out that door over there."

"Might I ask who wants to kill me now?" K.T. asked, forgetting any bit of fear or apprehension he might have had with this situation and going straight to annoyed. Silently he berated himself for having missed this threat when he had even been looking for potential dangers.

"You have one hell of a group of admirers," the gunman said with a chuckle. "Just go outside, and you get to meet your newest fan."

"I can't wait," K.T. said in a thoroughly sarcastic tone of voice. The blonde grinned at the comment, then turned and started for a fire exit set near the corner of the building. K.T. fell into step behind her, feeling the gunman's weapon still at his back. The girl opened the door as she reached it, then turned and gestured with a smile to the mercenary. Without any other alternatives for the moment, K.T. stepped through the door and into an alley that ran along the side of the Tunnel.

A hand grabbed the mercenary by his throat as soon as he stepped through the door, and slammed into the opposite wall of the alley. K.T. rebounded off and into a bone jarring punch just as he turned around, falling back into the wall as he tried to regain his balance. K.T. drew his Ruger in a heartbeat and turned it on his attackers, but he found himself staring down the barrels of three Tommy guns, a pair of Glocks, and four grinning Sabbat. Three of them were the Nosferatu he had run into earlier in the night, fully healed and ready to take on the mercenary one more time.

"Don't," one of the Nosferatu stated simply. K.T. reluctantly put his hands up, removing his thumb from the hammer of his Ruger. The Nosferatu took his Ruger and looked the weapon over. "Nice hand cannon."

"Thanks," K.T. stated, his eyes on the weapons that remained trained on him. The Nosferatu sighted down the Ruger to the end of the alley, then turned without warning and pistol whipped the Gangrel. Unprepared for the attack, K.T. took the shot squarely along his temple, barely keeping on his feet as his sight blurred momentarily and he staggered back. The Nosferatu were masters of the discipline of potence, which augmented their strength to supernatural levels, and even K.T.'s fortitude was barely enough to shake off the gunman's strike.

"I really don't like being shot," the Nosferatu growled, grabbing K.T. and forcing him back against the wall before the Gangrel could fall. "I really don't like it when people shoot me in the head. Once I'm finished with you, I'm gonna go waste that Ventrue bitch real nice and slow."

"Well I hope you have fun," K.T. commented, rubbing the side of his face where his adversary had hit him. "Is this all you wanted to drag me out here for?"

"No," the blonde said with a wicked smile. "Someone wants to meet you before you die."

"Well I can't say I'm overjoyed," K.T. said. "So who do I get to meet?"

"Me," another man said in a low, rumbling voice. K.T. looked down the dark alley to a huge Hispanic man with a beard of curly black hair and an equally black scalp lock hanging down his back. He was big by any means, broad shouldered and heavily muscled, and a mean grin creased his face as he examined the mercenary. His presence exuded a princely air, and K.T. silently cursed the discipline everyone seemed to possess except for him. "Let me welcome you personally to my section of Manhattan. I'm Cordoba."

"So you're the guy I keep hearing about," K.T. said, looking over his newest opponent. "Yeah, you rank right up there with Superman, from what I've heard."

"Oh, I'm flattered," Cordoba said with a bit of a grin, ignoring the mercenary's sarcastic tone. The big man actually seemed to relax a little, taking the statement as a compliment. "So, I guess you know how dangerous I am?"

"More or less," K.T. replied. "So, why do you want to kill me so badly?"

What good humor Cordoba had gained from K.T.'s statement vanished instantly as the Panders took on a dark expression of rage.

"I don't like Setites," Cordoba pointed out, keeping his voice even and menacing. "And I don't like the bastards that sell their souls to those sick fucks. I've been fighting them for a long time, and it's been all I can do to keep them out of my turf. If they think I'm gonna step aside and let their idiot pawns inside the Sabbat steal my turf and my drug trades, they're dead wrong. You want to know why you're about to die? Because you and the two Loyalist assholes inside picked the wrong fucking side of this war."

"I've got a news flash for you," K.T. said, rapidly becoming less and less impressed with the group of Sabbat that faced him. "I'm not working for the Setites. In case you didn't notice, they dumped us in the middle of Central Park, right in werewolf central."

"I had noticed that," Cordoba said, taking no action against K.T.'s irreverent tone for the moment. "And I also noticed that you're being chased by a psycho killer that thinks he's an Assamite. Maybe you would care to explain to me why almost everyone in this city is after you."

"What can I say?" K.T. replied. "I'm a really popular guy."

"Funny," Cordoba stated. The Nosferatu with the fedora and the cigar slammed the butt of his Tommy gun into K.T.'s side, doubling the mercenary over in pain. Before K.T. could recover from the strike, Cordoba closed one massive hand around his throat and slammed him back into the wall. 

"I don't like you as it is," Cordoba snarled, leaning in close to K.T.'s face. "But right now, something is going on inside my territory. Now you're going to help me figure out what the fuck is going on, or I'm gonna torture you, real slow. And believe me, whatever you've seen won't compare to what Peter and I can do."

Cordoba gestured to the Nosferatu that had taken K.T.'s gun. The mercenary looked over to him, and Peter smiled menacingly. K.T. put up his hands, and Cordoba lowered him to the ground.

"Look, I barely even know what the fuck is going on, okay?" K.T. started. "Four days ago I'm called in by some bishop, and since then he's died, another bishop has died, most of a pack has died, and almost everyone I've met in this God forsaken city has tried to shoot me, stab me, or kill me in some other fashion. Now if you're Black Hand and you've got a hard on to be the next bishop or archbishop or whatever the fuck it is you want to be, go right the fuck ahead and I'll go back where I came from. Just call off your assassins or whatever and leave me the fuck alone."

Cordoba stared at K.T. for a long moment, a look of utter confusion on his face.

"I want some of what he's smoking," the Nosferatu with the fedora and the cigar said with a grin. Cordoba finally reacted, but it was hardly what the mercenary expected. The Panders started to chuckle, then fell into a bout of nearly uncontrollable laughter. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Cordoba finally managed, his mirth changing rapidly to anger. "You trying to tell me that I've been killing off bishops and packs of Sabbat? Listen here, _cabrón_, Sabbat don't kill Sabbat. I have never killed an honest Sabbat in my life."

"Well then you might want to talk that over with Jerry," K.T. said. "And with the eight nomads you had killed."

"They were Camarilla spies!" Cordoba retorted furiously. He slammed one fist into K.T.'s face, nearly knocking the mercenary unconscious between the impact of the Panders' phenomenally powerful strike and the second collision of his head with the brick wall behind him. As K.T. tried to regain his senses completely, the pack leader grabbed him by the throat and once again pinned him to the wall. "Who the fuck told you they were Sabbat nomads? Jerry?"

K.T. nodded, still not seeing more than swirls of light in front of him.

"Jaime, Peter, go get that little _antitribu_ freak out here!" Cordoba ordered as K.T. regained focus. The blonde and her Nosferatu companion disappeared back into the Tunnel, but more vampires began to creep out of the shadows, well armed and openly menacing. As K.T. sized up his new opposition, he considered Cordoba's reaction to the murder accusations; the Panders was evidently taking a lot of flack for the eight deceased nomads. Cordoba saw him sizing up his opponents, and moved into his line of sight. "Yeah, that's right," the Panders growled. "There ain't no way out for you right now, unless you consider death a way out."

"I'll just wait," K.T. said, turning his attention to Cordoba. The two vampires watched each other for the next two minutes, until Erica was thrown into the alley next to K.T.

"What the hell are you doing?" the Ventrue demanded, turning angrily to Cordoba. "The archbishop is-"

Erica's protest was lost in a gasp of pain as Peter slammed the butt of his Tommy gun into her face. The Ventrue was thrown back into the wall, dazed and nearly unconscious. She started to slump to the ground, but the Nosferatu dragged her back to her feet and jammed the barrel of his weapon into her midsection.

"Come on," Peter growled, a cold smile on his hideous face. "Give me a reason."

"Peter," Cordoba said, pushing the Tommy gun away from Erica. The Nosferatu backed off a step, disappointed.

"Next time, bitch," the Nosferatu threatened.

"You ready to be more cooperative now?" Cordoba asked the Ventrue. "If you're not, I'm sure Peter will help you… see things our way."

Erica nodded nervously, her eyes darting between the Panders and the Nosferatu.

"Good," Cordoba said. "Now, I want you to tell me who's chasing you and why. And if I even think your Gangrel friend here is giving you any hints about what he told us, I'll kill you both without any further questions."

Erica glanced to K.T., but the mercenary was busy making sure that none of Cordoba's pack was becoming trigger happy.

"Well, my pack found this communiqué between Black Hand guys, and as soon as we told Bishop Halsey about it, everyone started dying," the Ventrue finally started. "The Setites tried to recruit us to work for them, but we refused, so they dumped us out in Central Park."

"And you think I'm behind Halsey's death?" Cordoba asked. "Jerry said I was killing people off?"

Erica said nothing despite the fear etched onto her features.

"Want me to beat the truth out of her?" Peter asked, expectant.

"Her silence is all the answer I need," Cordoba said evenly. "Get Bonifay."

Peter and Jaime disappeared into the club one more time, leaving an uneasy silence in the alley. Erica glanced constantly from the Nosferatu to Cordoba to K.T., waiting tensely for something to happen. K.T. kept his eyes on Cordoba, who in turn watched the mercenary with an arrogant glare. Cordoba's pack continued to keep up their threatening postures, pointing guns at their two prisoners. Finally, after a long five minutes, Cordoba's two subordinates returned, pushing Jerry out into the alley. The Lasombra turned to Cordoba, ready to spit out an angry complaint about his rough treatment, but the Panders grabbed the far smaller Lasombra before he could react.

"What the fuck rumors are you spreading about me, you little fuck?" Cordoba demanded, shaking Jerry roughly by the throat. "You trying to make it look like I go around murdering Sabbat?" The Panders leaned in close, baring his fangs as he practically butted heads with the Lasombra. He growled out his next statement in a bestial, menacing tone. "I don't like people trying to give me a bad name, _puto_. Last person that got on my bad side is still recovering from the beating I gave him."

"What are you talking about?" Jerry asked, astounded by the accusations. "I never said you were murdering Sabbat!"

"Well maybe you'd better refresh your two friends about that," Cordoba said. He slammed the Lasombra into the wall behind him. "They seem to think you gave them all sorts of information about my working with the Black Hand to take over the Sabbat!"

"They took the information I gave about you wrong," Jerry said, composing himself in the face of Cordoba's fury. "I said you could make a play if you wanted, and your extermination of a nomadic pack is well enough known to give them reason to believe you might wipe out fellow Sabbat to take over."

"They weren't Sabbat," Cordoba growled. "I had it on good faith that they were Camarilla spies."

"I think you may be right, but the evidence for that was circumstantial at best," Jerry said. "Way I hear, you killed them over some kind of insult to this wench over here."

"Shut the fuck up!" Jaime snapped, drawing a knife from her purse and advancing on Jerry. Cordoba grabbed the smaller vampire's wrist as she drew her arm back to strike.

"I'll decide when he gets punished," the Panders growled. "Remember your place, childe."

Jaime glared at the Lasombra, but her fear of what Cordoba would do if she went against his word stayed her hand.

"So, do you work with the Black Hand?" Jerry asked boldly. Cordoba turned back to him, a look of surprise on his face. Then he laughed.

"Please!" the Panders exclaimed. "Do you remember who runs the Hand? Assamites! You know how they feel about my clan! You're one dense mother fucker, Bonifay."

"They have enough respect for you to let you in," Jerry said. "Way I hear it, you can inspire fear in them."

"Where the fuck do you hang out, Bonifay?" Cordoba asked, a disbelieving expression set in place now. "You know those A-rabs don't fear anything. They'd rush into battle with an Antediluvian if they had the chance."

Cordoba shook his head in disbelief, then tossed Jerry back into K.T. and Erica. The Ventrue helped Jerry to his feet quickly. Cordoba's pack quickly closed in around them, raising their weapons.

"Well, this is going pretty smoothly," Erica commented, trying to think of a way out of the ring of gunmen. Cordoba gave the Ventrue a mean smile as he stepped back from them.

"Might as well end their misery now and drop their bodies off for the snakes to pick 'em up," the Panders directed, already turning back to the Tunnel. Peter smiled as he stepped forward and poked Erica in the gut with his Tommy gun.

"Lights out, sweets," he said with a cold grin. "Payback's a bitch, ain't it?"

Erica glared back at the Nosferatu, refusing to show any fear to Peter or his companions. Peter started to squeeze the trigger, but was stopped an instant before he fired by screeching tires at the end of the alley. Two Cadillacs raced to a stop at the mouth of the narrow street, spilling out over a half dozen black men sporting long, thick green or black dred locks and AK-47's. The Sabbat quickly turned to the new threat, forgetting about their three prisoners as the Jamaican posse turned their rifles on the vampires. A tense standoff followed as the leader of the posse moved forward, his long black overcoat billowing out behind him as he rested a combat shotgun on his shoulder. His thick black dred locks hid most of his face in shadow, but the light of the street lamps glinted off of his mirror shades and illuminated the perfect smile on his face.

"Well, well, Mister Cordoba," the Setite said, evaluating the situation. He looked to K.T., and smiled. "Just like you said, you got dem out of de club. T'ank you, Mister Corben."

K.T. stared back at the Setite posse leader, utterly confused. Cordoba turned and grabbed the Gangrel in fury, tearing a long, serrated knife from the sheath on the back of his belt.

"You fucking bastard!" Cordoba bellowed, drawing his knife back to impale the mercenary. K.T. slammed a fist home in the Panders' face even as the posse opened up on the Sabbat, throwing the alley into a firestorm of chaos. Cordoba dropped away from K.T. as the Setite's first blast tore through the Panders' side, releasing his grip on the mercenary. K.T. acted quickly, rolling around the larger man and grabbing for his Ruger tucked into Peter's belt. One bullet grazed K.T.'s scalp and another ricocheted off the pavement into his thigh, but the Gangrel tore his revolver free of the Nosferatu's grasp, firing even as he wrenched the weapon free of the Nosferatu's waistline. Peter fell to the ground, screaming in pain, as K.T. kept moving, looking for an escape route from the battle.

Erica was the first ally K.T. could find in the mess of gunfire and vampires, practically spinning in a circle as she blazed away with a pair of Glocks at both the Sabbat and Setites. A few feet behind her and farther down the alley, a plain steel door led into the building next to the Tunnel. Bouncing off of the club's wall and propelling himself back through the firefight, K.T. grabbed the Ventrue by the arm and threw her at the door. He glanced back and saw Jerry next, stumbling from a gunshot wound in his shoulder, only a yard or so up the alley toward the posse. K.T. grabbed the Lasombra by his collar even as he staggered back, spinning around and hurling Jerry back into Erica.

"Go! Go! Through the door!" K.T. ordered, turning and shooting a Nosferatu only a foot or so away from him. Erica turned quickly and barreled through the door, chased by a burst of automatic fire. Jerry ducked in next, pausing long enough to provide what cover he could for K.T. as the mercenary backpedaled to the exit.

Erica raced through the hallway behind the steel door in a flash of motion, ignoring the few apartment residents on the ground floor that dared to look out of their doors at the scene unfolding. The Ventrue threw a quick glance over her shoulder to see Jerry backing along the hall as K.T. ducked inside the building and slammed the fire door shut in time to stop a hail of bullets.

"Go go go!" Jerry shouted, turning and sprinting up the hall as he waved frantically for the Ventrue to keep moving. Erica tore through the front door, bursting out onto Twenty-sixth Street as the Sabbat made their way into the apartment building. Erica leapt down the pair of steps from the building to the sidewalk as a Honda pulled up along the curb.

"Mister! Help!" Erica exclaimed dramatically, racing for the car. The driver got out of the vehicle, stunned, as the Ventrue slid across the hood and rammed her Glock into his midsection.

"Keys, please," Erica said with a polite smile, holding her free hand out expectantly. The driver handed the keys over in fear, and the Ventrue smashed the butt of her pistol into his forehead. "Thank you!" she said happily, stuffing the motorist into the back of the Honda. Then she jumped into the driver's seat and started the car. Quickly she threw the passenger side door open, just as Jerry raced out of the apartment building. "Come on! Get in!"

Jerry rushed for the car and dove into the Honda, turning quickly and pushing the back door open for K.T. The mercenary sprinted out of the front door in a rain of lead, diving into the back of the Honda an instant after the door swung open. Glass shattered above him and the door closed on his leg as K.T. hit the back seat, turning over on his back and firing through the blown out window at the Sabbat on the step. Erica slammed the Honda into gear and tore back out into traffic on Twenty-sixth Street, driving for Sixth Avenue and leaving the gunfight behind. K.T. felt a lump against his back and looked over to see the unconscious motorist.

"What the hell is this schmuck doing back here?" the mercenary demanded, pulling himself into a sitting position.

"Dinner!" Erica exclaimed, blowing through the red light on Sixth and Twenty-sixth. The Honda screeched as the Ventrue cut left across traffic, nearly crashing into the front end of a police cruiser converging on the battle raging a block away. Even as Erica started the wrong way through Sixth Avenue's traffic, the police cruiser and a companion car spun around in the intersection, chasing the three vampires down.

"Great, more problems," K.T. grumbled, dumping his spent rounds onto the car floor and jamming a new speed loader home. "Erica you idiot, we're on a one way street!"

"I'm only going one way!" Erica shouted back over her shoulder, dodging around traffic and sideswiping oncoming cars. She came frighteningly close to ramming a beer truck head on, barely avoiding a lethal crash as she grazed the front bumper. K.T. glanced back, ready to ward off the police with one or two shots, but the truck that had nearly killed the three fugitives turned sideways across the street and was instantly broadsided by one of the cruisers. The other cruiser slowed down with the loss of its partner, giving Erica time to spin wildly east along Twenty-fourth Avenue, heading for the FDR Drive.

Erica finally stopped the car three hours after their flight had begun, finding herself in front of a run down welfare hotel on Baltic Street. Only half a block away to the east, the Metro North terminals lay silent and still, while the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway still thundered with traffic above the streets just to the west. K.T. opened his door and scanned the street quickly, but no one was present on the narrow, car lined thoroughfare. Jerry stepped out of the car next to him, and looked over the crumbling brick façade of the hotel in front of him.

"Classy accommodations," the Lasombra quipped, turning back to Erica as she closed the driver's side door of the Honda. He started into the hotel without another word. K.T. took a step to the door, then turned back to the Ventrue.

"Couldn't find anywhere better?" the mercenary inquired, only half serious. Erica simply shrugged.

"I'm not exactly a big fan of welfare dives, but we don't exactly have any other options," the Ventrue pointed out. "Besides, no one ever sees anyone else down here. This way we can dump the car, disappear as soon as the sun goes down tomorrow, and it'll be weeks before anyone knows we were even here. Not only that, but anyone around these parts is easy prey."

"That's because they're all drugged up beyond worth," K.T. reminded his companion as she started to the hotel.

"That's why we'll feed just before sunrise," Erica pointed out, her condescending tone returning. "That way, you can sleep off the drugs and alcohol. You really have to learn to think, K.T."

Erica walked through the hotel door after Jerry. K.T. hesitated for a moment, seriously contemplating putting a bullet into the Ventrue's back to teach her a little respect. Then he started into the hotel himself, deciding that Erica was not worth the bullet.

"You really have to learn to think, K.T.," the mercenary repeated in a whiny voice, finally walking into the dimly lit, sparsely furnished lobby. Erica and Jerry were both standing at the foot of a rickety flight of stairs, waiting for the mercenary to catch up with them. As the mercenary reached them, Jerry started up the stairs and led the trio through a dark, narrow hall to their room, and unlocked the door. Erica followed Jerry in quickly, dropping down on the somewhat clean bed set against the wall of the cramped room.

"I don't know how many more nights of this I can take," the Ventrue commented, looking up at K.T. as he entered the room. The mercenary shut the door quietly behind him, and turned to Jerry. The Lasombra turned back to him after a moment, noticing K.T.'s appraising stare.

"What?" Jerry finally asked.

"Cordoba said that nomadic pack was a bunch of Camarilla spies," K.T. stated without any emotion.

"I know," Jerry agreed. "That's what he keeps on saying. Most people don't believe him."

"He's also not the one trying to kill us," K.T. added, his voice still flat.

"He seemed pretty up for it tonight," Jerry reminded him in an icy tone. Erica stood up, glaring at the mercenary.

"What are you driving at, K.T.?" the Ventrue asked, clearly upset with him.

"I want to know what the fuck is going on," K.T. said. "Two bishops and most of a pack have died. Cordoba wasn't behind it. The only reason he's trying to kill us right now is because we were seen with Setites tonight. Now what the hell is going on? What was that communiqué about?"

"What, do you think I memorized it?" Jerry retorted, openly angry now. "If I did, do you think we would have gone looking for it?"

"Why'd you try to burn it?" K.T. continued, keeping his voice even.

"Who told you that?" Jerry demanded.

"The Setites," K.T. answered. "They even showed me the paper. You didn't get very much of it."

"Jesus Christ, Cordoba was right!" Jerry exclaimed. He turned on Erica, shock and disappointment on his face. "I don't believe it! This hir4ed thug I can understand, but you, Erica? Please say you're not in on this!"

"No, I'm not!" Erica countered quickly. "The Setites tried to force us to work for them!" The Ventrue hesitated for a moment, then turned to the mercenary. "Right, K.T.?"

"Why'd you try to burn it?" K.T. asked again, ignoring the accusation Jerry had leveled.

"K.T.?" Erica asked, expectant. The mercenary turned to her with a withering glare.

"I'm not working for anyone," the mercenary said. He returned his attention to Jerry. "Now maybe you'd like to answer my question."

"Are you trying to imply that I had something to do with this conspiracy theory of yours?" Jerry asked in disbelief.

"Got a guilty conscience?" K.T. inquired.

"No, I don't!" Jerry retorted angrily. "Who the fuck are you, anyway? You come waltzing into town telling us that some ridiculous plot is going on within the Black Hand without any proof at all! The bishop that supposedly sent for you is dead and I don't know who you are, where you came from, or what you're doing here! You might be a Camarilla spy for all I know, or you might be working with the Setites!"

"Both of you, stop!" Erica exclaimed, stepping between the two. "Are you both out of your minds? There's some lunatic out there trying to whack us that none of us know, whether he wanted us dead before or not we definitely now have Cordoba as an enemy, and the Setites are alternating between trying to kill us and trying to recruit us! Now unless the three of us work together we're all dead! So shut the fuck up and let it go! We are all on the same side!"

Jerry and K.T. both looked at each other for a long moment, seemingly ignoring her.

"Do you both understand!" the Ventrue screamed.

"Yeah," Jerry said, not taking his eyes from K.T.

"Sure," the Gangrel agreed with about as much conviction.

"Forget it," Erica fumed, stepping out from between the two of them. She threw her keys at Jerry, and stormed towards the door. "Just forget it! Go ahead and kill each other!"

"Where are you going?" K.T. asked, finally turning to her.

"I'm leaving," Erica said simply, controlling the rage that was thinly veiled under her voice. "I figure I can do a better job of staying alive alone, since you two are going to be too busy watching each other to look for anything else."

"Alright!" Jerry exclaimed. Then he calmed down. "Alright. We're both wrong, and I admit it. Neither of us are behind any of this. It's just been a really long night, and I'm jumping at anything."

"Me too," K.T. finally said, looking down at the dirty gray rug. "I just want to try and figure out what's going on, and considering everything else that happened tonight, I'm a bit on edge."

"Alright," Erica said, returning to the room. "Alright. Now that we're all in agreement, we may as well just call it a night. I've been doing enough running around for one night, myself. Now you can both behave?"

"That's right," Jerry said. K.T. nodded his agreement. "Tomorrow we'll try to get to the archbishop, but with everything that's happened so far I think going into Manhattan would be a bad thing."

"Okay," Erica said. "I'm going to drive the car over a few blocks and dump it. Then we can get a taxi or something tomorrow. Everything fine with that? If I'm gone for ten minutes, neither of you are going to start accusing me of working with Setites or whoever's trying to kill us, are you?"

"Very funny," K.T. said flatly. Erica smiled at him coldly.

"Well, someone already seemed all too willing to jump to conclusions tonight," she stated harshly. Then she turned and disappeared into the hallway. K.T. watched the door for a moment, then turned back to Jerry. The Lasombra was still watching him, waiting for the mercenary to make another accusation. The two stood in silence for a minute before K.T. broke the silence.

"You and I both know that Cordoba isn't behind this," he stated evenly, keeping any hint of accusation out of his voice.

"You're probably right," Jerry admitted. He looked at the door for a moment, then gazed down at the floor. "But let's leave it like that, okay? We both know that some psychotic assassin is after us, and we both know that Cordoba wants us dead now, if for no other reason than the fact that Clairvius acted like you helped him set Cordoba up."

"Clairvius?" K.T. repeated.

"You know that big guy with the dreds and the mirror shades?" Jerry inquired. K.T. nodded. "That's him. Patrice Beladeau's right hand man, chief enforcer, and the visible leader of the Jamaican posses in Manhattan. He's a sick bastard, one of the scariest enemies we have in this city."

"But why just leave it at that?" K.T. asked. "What are you trying to hide?"

"I'm not trying to hide anything, not really," Jerry said. He hesitated for a moment, uncomfortable with the topic. "But… well, I don't want to frighten Erica too much."

"You don't want to frighten Erica?" K.T. repeated, incredulous. "I don't want to burst your bubble, Jerry, but it's a little late for that."

"Come on, K.T.," Jerry countered. "You don't scare a Sabbat, even one as young and inexperienced as Erica, by giving them some big bad son of a bitch and saying that he's the guy trying to kill you. At least she'd know where the attack was coming from. But this, we don't even know who's doing what right now. I mean, I don't want her jumping at every shadow and bump in the night even after this is over. Look, we've both been playing this game for decades, and I don't expect you to think Cordoba's behind all this. But someone wants us to think that. So let's try to shake Cordoba and this maniac murderer. Without his pawns, whoever's behind all of this may go to ground, not wanting to reveal his hand. Then you can go back wherever you came from, and Erica and I can rebuild our pack."

K.T. turned away from Jerry for a moment, thinking over the proposal. Jerry had a valid point; most elder vampires hated to take a hand personally in their machinations. Maybe, if the unseen player ran out of pawns, he would stop the game and let the three vampires go.

"How do we deal with Cordoba and that killer?" the mercenary finally conceded. Although he was far less than enthused with the plan Jerry had come up with, it was better than running around the five boroughs waiting to get shot at.

"I have some contacts I'd like to check with about the assassin," Jerry replied. "They might be able to find out who he is and where he's hiding. As for Cordoba, well, I think we're going to have to try to kill him."

"Oh, that's it," K.T. stated sarcastically.

"Well, it's a start," Jerry said. "Not the best start, I'll admit, but a start nonetheless. Do you have any contacts in the city"

"One or two," K.T. admitted. "I can check with them tomorrow."

"Alright," Jerry said. He hesitated a moment, looking out through the only window in the room, then turned back to the mercenary. "Hopefully, in a couple of nights this will all be over."

"Hopefully," K.T. agreed. Jerry smiled thinly.

"Well, either that, or we all may be dead."


	2. Sleight of Hands, Part Two

**VII**

"K.T., wake up."

K.T. woke with a start, already reaching for his Ruger. He stopped just as his hand closed around the grip of the revolver, his eyes focusing on Erica as the Ventrue backed off slightly. As the mercenary relaxed, Erica leaned back on the battered rim of the hotel's bath tub, looking down at her companion with an amused smile.

"What?" K.T. mumbled, still mostly asleep. "Who's trying to kill us now?"

"For once, no one," Erica replied with a touch of humor. She took his hand and started to pull him out of the tub. "Come on out into the living room. I want you to do something with us."

"What's that?" K.T. inquired, trying to wake up as he allowed Erica to lead him into the bedroom. Jerry was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding an opened butterfly knife in one hand and a small glass in the other.

"We want you to take part in the Vaulderie with us," Erica said, an almost expectant tone in her voice.

"No," K.T. said, not even skipping a beat. He knew what the Vaulderie could do; the Sabbat had created the rite in their earliest days to ensure loyalty among their packs. Drinking the blood of another vampire created feelings of love and loyalty towards that vampire, creating what was known as the Blood Bond. In creating the Vaulderie, the Sabbat mingled the blood of all of the members of a pack. This created a somewhat minor Blood Bond, called the Vinculum, but to K.T. it was a Blood Bond nonetheless.

"I told you," Jerry said to Erica, rolling his eyes in disgust. The Ventrue turned back on K.T.

"Please, K.T.," she tried. "It won't do much after one drink except maybe form some loyalty between us. Then that ugly little argument that happened last night won't happen again."

"I'm not part of the Sabbat, much less your pack," K.T. stated. "I'm not taking part in rituals that require me drinking anyone else's blood. I tend to think more objectively without having the Vinculum in the way."

"One drink isn't going to make you fanatically loyal, K.T.," Erica pointed out. "Just give a little blood, and then drink a little. I swear we're not trying to force you into the Sabbat."

"Do it yourselves" K.T. suggested. Jerry sighed in disgust.

"It doesn't work with just two people, mercenary," the Lasombra pointed out.

"Jesus Christ, K.T., you're part of our pack right now as it is," Erica said, rapidly growing frustrated with the mercenary's stubbornness. "We have to deal with each other, like it or not. Just take part this once and we won't bother you again, okay?"

K.T. looked from one Sabbat to the other, and weighed his options. He could probably get away with the Vaulderie once. The Vinculum was not nearly as strong as the Blood Bond, and probably not as long lasting, either. Once he was done figuring out what was going on, the mercenary was out of New York, quite possibly for good. Considering that his two allies seemed dead set on his partaking of the Vinculum, K.T. had no realistic option, other than walking out on the pair. With the current situation, K.T. needed all the allies he could get, even if they were just extra targets for an assassin to shoot at.

"Alright, I'll do it," the Gangrel spat out, visibly upset with the situation. "Just once, though. Don't expect me to be doing this every night with you two."

"Good enough," Erica said, clearly relieved. She turned to Jerry.

"Well, we don't have a priest right now, so this'll be a bit rough," the Lasombra admitted. The priests of Sabbat packs typically conducted rituals such as the Vaulderie, but Jerry's priest was among the dead of his pack. The Lasombra cut his wrist and bled a little into the glass, then passed the vessel and the knife to Erica. The Ventrue did likewise, and handed the implements to K.T. After a long pause, the Gangrel finally added his blood to the mixture. Jerry took the knife and glass back. Jerry placed the knife on the bed, then raised the glass slightly and cleared his throat.

"Since our beginnings, the Sabbat has stood strong because of loyalty to pack and sect," the Lasombra started. "May this blood that we share renew our ties of loyalty and give us the strength to hold to the ideals of Caine, Father of all vampires."

"Amen," Erica said reverently. K.T. looked away, hinting at his impatience to move the ritual along.

"I pledge my loyalty to my pack, the Sabbat, and Caine," Jerry stated, bringing the cup to his lips. He drank down some of the blood, then handed the glass to Erica.

"I pledge my loyalty to my pack, the Sabbat, and Caine," Erica repeated. Then she too drank some of the blood. Finally, she handed the last of the blood to K.T. Hesitantly, the mercenary took the glass, and drank down what was left. He handed the glass back to Jerry, then glanced around at the other two. Erica and Jerry were still watching, as though they actually expected him to pledge his loyalty to the Sabbat.

"Well?" Jerry prompted, waiting for the Gangrel's oath.

"I'm not pledging any loyalties," K.T. pointed out with a tone of finality. As far as he was concerned, it should have been enough that he was taking part in their stupid little ritual. Jerry sighed in disgust. Erica appeared a bit hurt, but said nothing. K.T. picked up his torn and holed duster from the only chair in the room, and turned back to his allies. "Let's get this show on the road," he said. "We've got three packs, an insane assassin, and probably the entire police force of New York City to deal with."

"Fine," Jerry stated, still showing his disapproval with the Gangrel. K.T. shook his head and walked out of the hotel room. Erica took a step to follow when Jerry grabbed her by the arm.

"Are you absolutely sure we can trust him?" he asked. Erica glared at him.

"Of course we can!" she replied, a bit more forcefully than even she had intended. Then she calmed down. "He's been with me for the last three nights, and, in all actuality, he's the main reason why I'm still alive."

"Alright," Jerry said, seemingly a bit unconvinced. Erica rolled her eyes.

"I thought we were beyond this," the Ventrue said. "Didn't we solve this problem last night?"

"Alright," Jerry repeated. "I'll trust your instincts, don't worry. Come on, before he gets suspicious of both of us."

"Thank you," Erica said. "And please, try not to antagonize him at all. The both of you are acting like children."

"Don't worry about me," Jerry stated as the pair walked out of the hotel room. K.T. was leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs, and the Ventrue could already see the suspicious look in the mercenary's eyes as he watched Jerry walking towards him.

"All ready?" the mercenary inquired, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer on Jerry.

"Sure thing," Jerry replied with noticeably false good humor. "Well, where shall we start? You said you have contacts in the city, K.T."

"So do you," K.T. pointed out.

"Mine are in Manhattan," Jerry stated. "Do you have any out here?"

"Yeah," K.T. answered. He hesitated for a moment, then continued. "I've got a friend on the fringes of Queens and Brooklyn."

"A lovely trip out to Queens," Erica put in, desperately trying to keep relations civil between the Lasombra and the Gangrel. She took K.T.'s hand, and started to pull him down the stairs. "Well, we'd better not waste any more time standing around here. We have places to go and people to see, right K.T.?"

"Yeah, of course," K.T. answered, allowing himself to be led down the stairs.

"You coming, Jerry?" Erica asked, looking back at the Lasombra.

"Oh, I'm right behind you," Jerry replied with a broad, forced smile.

Erica led the group down into the lobby of the hotel, finally releasing K.T.'s hand once she had gotten the mercenary moving. Jerry reached the lobby a second later, and followed the pair out onto Baltic Street. K.T. looked up and down the street, somehow expecting an assassin, Setite, or angry Sabbat pack, but mercifully, all seemed quiet.

"Should we get a train, bus, or cab?" Erica inquired, turning back to Jerry as he also checked the street for an attacker.

"Well, we're next to the train yards," the Lasombra replied. He pointed east along Baltic. "I think there's a platform somewhere that way, subway or L-train I can't remember."

"Let's get moving," K.T said, turning and starting up the street.

K.T. had only taken two steps when the boom of a rifle sounded behind him. He whirled rapidly, already drawing his gun, but all he saw was Jerry stumbling to the ground, his face nothing more than blood and shattered bone. The mercenary moved quickly, dodging to one side before the shooter could draw a bead on him, and barely avoided a lance of brilliant, bright white light streaking down from the top of a building across the street. K.T. recognized instantly the meaning of the brightly lit bullet; the assassin was using phosphorous rounds, which could burn a vampire into Final Death in short order. Even if the wounds created by the burning rounds did not kill, it would take days to heal the injuries caused by fiery bullets. 

"Get back in the hotel!" K.T. ordered, stutter stepping quickly to further ruin the shooter's aim. Another streak of light hit the ground only inches in front of the mercenary, ricocheting off the pavement and almost hitting him in the shin. Erica started for the hotel, but stopped as she saw the Lasombra lying on the ground, unmoving.

"Jerry!" the Ventrue exclaimed, dropping to the ground next to her downed friend. K.T. rushed past her, barely realizing that she had not yet made the safety of the hotel as he fired wildly at the rooftop where the assassin was hiding. Neither shot came close to hitting the killer, but it bought K.T. the seconds he needed to reach the hotel. The mercenary stopped dead in his tracks one step outside the door, then ducked back inside the hotel as yet another brilliant round lanced down from the rooftop.

"Erica, get the fuck in here!" K.T shouted, trying to find a good shot on the assassin. The shallow alcove of the hotel door offered him nothing to shoot at. "Erica!" K.T. demanded, turning to the Ventrue. The girl still refused to give Jerry up for dead, dragging him back to the hotel. "Get out of view!"

Erica's attempts at a rescue were cut short only five yards from the front door as another streak of light tore through her just below the armpit. The Ventrue screamed in pain and stumbled backwards, falling to the pavement.

"Fuck!" K.T. snapped, putting his back to the wall. Erica was still alive, crawling back to Jerry in an insane attempt to save the Lasombra despite the fact that he was most likely already dead. K.T. considered his options quickly; he could abandon the two Sabbat here, disappearing easily into the darkness of Brooklyn, or he could try to salvage at least Erica out of the already botched night. It was a good five yards to Erica, then he had to get back under cover with the badly wounded Ventrue.

He was off and running in a celerity pumped sprint, reaching Erica in a heartbeat and dragging her to her feet by her hand as he let a wild blast loose on the shooter's last position. The mercenary whirled quickly, using his momentum to whip the badly injured Ventrue at the door, then continued to spin as a phosphorous round nearly tore through his chest from a second rooftop. Erica pulled herself to her feet just in front of the hotel door as K.T. barreled through her, forearm leading the way. The two crashed into the lobby just before one more round from the sniper hit the hotel door.

"How bad is it?" K.T. asked, rolling to his knees quickly and facing the door. He moved Erica's hand from her injury, quickly appraising the badly charred flesh around the bullet hole. She would live, but it would take several days to completely heal the injury.

"What about Jerry?" Erica gasped, grabbing K.T.'s hand.

"He's dead," the mercenary stated, glancing down at the Ventrue for a second. He looked back up in time to see the assassin approaching the front door, his Skorpion in hand. "Shit."

K.T. ducked just as the assassin opened fire, barely avoiding the hail of bullets that tore through the partially open hotel door. K.T. dragged Erica with him back behind the counter, keeping just ahead of the rapid spray of gunfire. The mercenary put his back to the counter and glanced around quickly, searching for a way out. 

"Come on out, I know you're in there!" the assassin shouted, just outside the door now. K.T. jumped up and fired twice, but the assassin ducked back outside before the mercenary could hit him. "Now that wasn't very nice!" the maniac called in, still maintaining an insanely cheery tone. K.T. shook his head in disgust as he emptied the cylinders of his Ruger and searched his duster for speed loaders. He found one a second later and jammed the six rounds into his Ruger as another rain of gunfire poured into the lobby, tearing up the desk and forcing K.T. lower to the ground. The mercenary looked around quickly, finally deciding that an unmarked door at the end of the counter offered his best way out. Quickly the Gangrel took Erica's arm and sprinted across the room behind the desk, hoping that the killer had not entered the lobby yet.

Gunfire chased the mercenary across the small room, punching through the wall only inches behind the pair but miraculously missing the mercenary. K.T. crashed through the door with a final surge of speed, then jumped back to his feet and slammed the door shut. A second later the wooden door was riddled by bullets, but K.T. had already shoved Erica to the floor beneath him, avoiding the flurry of lead. The gunfire came to a stop, and K.T. quickly got back to one knee. There was a door on the opposite end of the room, one that K.T. hoped would lead outside. Erica started to stagger to her feet, but K.T. shoved her back to the floor as he put two rounds through the door.

"Ow! Fuck!" the killer exclaimed. The door was torn apart by another barrage of machinegun fire, forcing K.T. back into the wall with the hotel cleaning supplies before he was torn apart. The burst of fire ended quickly, but not before K.T. had taken one shot to the shoulder and another just above his knee. Erica finally staggered to her feet, still shellshocked by the loss of Jerry and the pain of her own injury.

K.T. drove forward quickly, sweeping Erica along with him as he hit the far door and fumbled with the knob. A single boom tore through the room as the mercenary managed to unlock the door and shove through it, pushing Erica along with him. A line of burning pain tore across his back, but the damage was more cosmetic than anything else as K.T. stumbled back to his feet in a black alley and dragged Erica along with him. The faint whine of police sirens could be heard behind him as K.T. down the alley and turned onto a narrow, cramped street, helping Erica keep up until he simply threw her over his shoulder and carried her. Finally finding a narrow space between two buildings, the mercenary pushed his way through to yet another street, then changed direction again by heading straight up a fire escape. Stopping on the flat, black shingled roof, K.T. slid Erica off of his shoulder and watched the streets below, waiting for something to show itself on the dark, cratered road. The neighborhood seemed to grow almost unnaturally silent as K.T. waited for the assassin to track them to the roof, his Ruger in hand. The only noise that broke the silence was the faint sounds of sirens at the hotel where Jerry had been killed. After five minutes, even the sirens faded away into the Brooklyn night.

"What about Jerry?" Erica finally asked, her painful whisper sounding loud in the stillness. K.T. glanced back at her, and hesitated a moment.

"He didn't make it," the mercenary finally said. A single, bloody tear dropped from Erica's eye. "A phosphorous round to the head killed him."

"No," Erica moaned, her voice cracking. K.T. could hear the young Ventrue trying to keep her sobbing under control behind him as he continued to watch the streets below. After debating how to handle Jerry's death, he turned back to Erica. Her bloody tears streaked her cheeks as she tried to wipe them away.

"I'm sorry about Jerry," K.T. said, a bit awkwardly. He was never comfortable trying to console someone, although he had seen many mortals and vampires die. "I… I was wrong about him."

"Thank you," Erica said quietly, forcing a smile to her face. She pulled her knees up to her chest, looking less like a member of the brutal Sabbat and more like a frightened child. K.T. turned back to the edge of the roof, putting any sympathy he may have had for the Ventrue out of his mind, and waited for the assassin to appear from the darkness. Finally, K.T. decided that his insane hunter had retreated once more, content with only one kill for the night. He turned back to Erica, but the Ventrue simply stared at the roof, her eyes blank.

"Can you walk?" K.T. finally asked, kneeling next to her. Erica looked up.

"Why?" she asked in reply. "Where do we go now? Where can we go?"

"We have to try and figure all of this out," K.T. said. "Come on, Erica. Don't give up on me now."

"I can walk," Erica said, hesitating a moment. "But where are we going to go?"

"We have to get out of here, for one thing," K.T. said. "Maybe we can still make my contact out in Nassau. But you have to keep with me, Erica. Can you keep with me?"

"I'll try," Erica answered, trying to stand. K.T. helped her up, and supported much of the Ventrue's weight as the pair made their way back down the fire escape.

Once he was back on the street, K.T. stopped and looked around, trying to regain his bearings. The BQE still rumbled a couple of blocks away to his right, but the subway rail yards of Baltic Street had disappeared. Without being certain if he had gone north or south of the welfare hotel, the mercenary started back into Brooklyn, heading for the elevated highway that ran through the western fringes of the borough. Erica kept by his side, holding onto his arm and practically leaning against him to keep from falling. After only a handful of blocks, the mercenary found the entrance to the subway, and started down the steps. 

The platform was dark and deserted, a full third of the stark, fluorescent lights set in the ceiling either burnt out or broken. The white tile walls of the underground station were tarnished with dust and marred by vandalism, while the concrete platform floor was worn by decades of heavy use and covered with refuse. Erica glanced around the platform nervously, then leaned back against one of the tiled supports of the platform. K.T. tried to appear as relaxed as possible, but his right hand never strayed from the grip of the Ruger hidden under his duster.

The pair had only waited for a minute before the lights of a train appeared in the tunnel, and one of the oldest trains still running in the city of New York screeched to a halt in front of the platform. K.T. glanced one last time up the staircase to the surface, then walked up to the doors of the ugly, dull vermilion car that had stopped in front of him. Erica hobbled to his side and took his arm once more as they boarded the old train. As the doors closed and the cars started to move again, Erica dropped down, exhausted, into one of the scarred, white and orange plastic seats. K.T. stood in front of her, holding loosely to the metal posts near the door. For two stops the pair remained silent, glancing every once in a while through the deserted car. Finally, Erica looked up at the mercenary. She had regained her composure for the time being, putting Jerry's death out of her mind and focusing on the problems at hand.

"Your contact," she said. "Will he know anything about what's going on?"

"I hope so," K.T. answered. "At any rate, if he doesn't, we'd better get out of the city."

"We're… you're… just leave?" Erica stammered, stunned by the idea. K.T. nodded.

"I don't know who this maniac is, but I'm thinking more and more that we'd have a better chance outside of this city," the Gangrel reasoned. "At any rate, he might not follow us outside of New York."

"But… but we can't-" Erica started. She cut off her sentence as the door at the far end of the car opened, and a man wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and black leather gloves made his way back through the train from the forward cars. The man turned and forced the door shut behind him, then started back through the car with a smile on his narrow, flushed face. He was exceptionally tall and almost rail thin, his hair a short, spiky platinum blond and his eyes a piercing blue. K.T. watched as the man walked towards them, then dropped into the seat directly across the aisle from Erica.

"Wow!" the man exclaimed, taking off his gloves and cupping his hands around his ears. K.T. turned back to him, ready to ask that he go somewhere else on the empty train. "Sure is cold out, even for November! Say, K.T., you might want to get a new coat. That one's looking pretty ragged."

"What?" the mercenary asked, shocked. "Do I know you?"

"Oh, probably not," the man replied jovially. "But I know you, Mister Corben. And I know Miss Blackwell, too. How's your side, Erica? Looks pretty bad from where I'm sitting. You don't mind if I call you K.T., right?"

"Who are you?" K.T. asked, his hand closing quickly around his Ruger.

"Please, K.T. don't shoot me," the man requested, acting rather amused with the situation. "Listen, K.T., I'm here to help you and your lovely assistant. After all, what with assassins, Sabbat packs, and werewolves, you two could use all the help you can get."

"How do you know all of this?" K.T. demanded. "Who are you?"

"Oh, did I forget to introduce myself?" the man asked, surprised. "I'm sorry. You can call me Brian."

"And you're here to help me," K.T. said, still suspicious of the man and his motives. Brian nodded, a grin spread across his face. "Why?"

"That's a good question," Brian commended the Gangrel. As he spoke he remained nonchalant, as though he was making simple, pleasant conversation. "You know that guy that's chasing you around and trying to shoot you? Well, in the past he's worked with a mage that I… well, that I don't get along with very well. So, way I figure it, if you two are alive and running around, maybe he'll show himself, and I can turn him into charcoal."

"A mage?" K.T. asked, unable to hide his surprise. He did not know much about mages, but he had seen one in action during a Sabbat siege of the city of Charleston. While mages were mortal, they were capable of mind numbing magick that far surpassed any stage magic by even the most accomplished illusionists. The true magi were capable of tearing reality asunder if they so wished, from what little he had seen and heard about the mages. "Are you a mage, too?"

"I might be," Brian replied, a devilish smirk in place on his face.

"You want us to be bait for you?" Erica asked, speaking up for the first time. Brian turned to her.

"That's rather blunt, don't you think?" the mage inquired in reply. As he spoke, however, he could not hide his smile.

"What if we don't want to be your bait?" K.T. asked.

"Well, then I'd be forced to do something highly irrational," Brian replied, growing serious for the first time. "Like, say, turning you into a lawn jockey."

"Like I don't have enough problems already," K.T. grumbled.

"Yeah," Brian agreed, nearly laughing.

"Just who the fuck are you really?" K.T. demanded, growing infuriated with the mage. He held his anger in check as much as possible, however. There was no telling how dangerous, or insane, Brian really was.

"Just a guy named Brian," the mage replied. The train started to slow, and the blond haired man stood up. "Well, this is my stop. I have to get going. Oh, and don't think of getting off here, K.T. For one thing, Erica is stuck to her seat, and for another, if you look under her chair, you'll find a briefcase with an incendiary device in it. And don't think of leaving town, either. Your assassin friend is part of something much larger than the two of you know. Besides, if you leave town, I will find you and turn you into a lawn jockey."

Erica tried to stand, but found that Brian's words were all too true. She looked up to the Gangrel in terror, trying frantically to peel herself off of the chair. K.T. glanced under the seat, and could now see a small, brown briefcase. He turned back to Brian, his hand once again going to his Ruger, but Brian was already stepping out of the subway car.

"Bye kids!" the mage called out as the doors closed. K.T. raised his Ruger quickly, but the train began to move again, leaving the waving sorcerer behind on the platform. Erica suddenly shot forward, breaking free of whatever force had held her to her seat. K.T. caught her before she tumbled across the car, and helped her to her feet. As she regained her balance, the Ventrue's eyes went wide, and she quickly felt for the bullet hole in her side.

"He… he must have healed me somehow!" Erica exclaimed, turning to K.T. "I don't feel any more pain!"

"Let me see," K.T. said, pushing Erica's hand aside and examining the injury. Although Erica could no longer feel her injury, the bullet hole was still burned into her flesh. "He must have made you think he healed you, or something like that. The injury is still there."

"But… but how?" Erica asked, trying to discern the extent of her injury. "I mean, did he just make me forget I'm in pain?"

"Most likely," K.T. replied, carefully sliding the briefcase out from under the seat. Erica backed away a step, unwilling to take a chance with the explosive. K.T. cautiously lifted the top of the briefcase, and looked inside. Then he flipped it open, and pulled out a piece of paper. "That mother fucker. Next time I see him, I shoot him."

"No bomb?" Erica surmised. K.T. handed the piece of paper to the Ventrue. On it, neatly printed, were two words: Fooled You!

"No bomb," K.T. answered, dropping back into one of the seats. "What a wonderful night."

"This is getting really confusing," Erica agreed, sitting back down next to the mercenary. "First it's just something with the Hand, then it's something with Cordoba, then it's something involving mages. I've never even seen a mage before."

"I have," K.T. said, remembering the teenage wizard he had met in Charleston just over twenty years ago. The highlights of that night had been exploding gas mains and cars. "They aren't good news."

"Oh, great," Erica said, still trying to feel for the wound in her side. "Psychotic assassins, Setites, werewolves, and now mages. Who's left to meet?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want answered," K.T. warned, unwilling to put any thought into the question himself. Things were bad enough without him thinking up any more problems. Erica waited for a moment, apparently expecting some elaboration from the Gangrel. The pair traveled together in silence for another two stops, Erica trying to find anything to keep her mind off of Jerry's loss and K.T. attempting to work out some kind of plan to skip town without getting killed.

The conductor's voice crackled out of the subway car's speakers, announcing the arrival of the train at Rockaway Avenue. K.T. hesitated for a moment, then stood up as he confirmed his destination in his own mind. It had been over a decade since he had last been in Brooklyn, but he was fairly certain that he was at the right stop. Erica glanced up at him, expectant.

"This is it," the Gangrel said, taking a step to the door as the train lurched to a stop. "End of the line."

"Good," Erica stated, relieved to be getting off of the subway and moving on with the night. She followed K.T. out onto a slightly cleaner and marginally better lit platform, then headed quickly up the stairs behind the mercenary. The buildings of Rockaway Avenue were not as run down and crowded as the rest of Brooklyn, buy they were still a far cry from the towering, concrete and glass structures of Manhattan. Three and four story brownstones and tenements mixed with slightly better, whitewashed town homes, the dust and grit of the city making less of an impact on the houses. More street lamps worked here, giving the neighborhood a slight feeling of safety, but the roads were no better than the rest of the borough of Brooklyn. Potholes and craters still cracked the deep ruts of the pavement, worn out after decades of heavy traffic. 

"Come on," K.T. said, turning up Rockaway Avenue. "We have a few blocks to go."

"Who are we going to see?" Erica asked, catching up to the Gangrel easily.

"A friend of mine," K.T. answered, glancing around him every so often for some sign of a trap. "He lives up a couple of blocks."

"Oh, well that answers all my questions," Erica stated sarcastically. She followed as K.T. turned onto a side street, continuing toward a black, wrought iron fence in the distance. Erica looked at the houses around her, expecting the mercenary to turn off at any moment to one of the buildings, but after five more minutes, the two vampires were standing in front of the gates to a large cemetery. K.T. stropped at the fence, and judged the distance to the spiked top.

"Your friend lives in a grave yard?" Erica surmised, turning a vaguely disbelieving expression on the mercenary.

"He does," K.T. confirmed, quickly pulling himself over the fence. He dropped down to the other side, then looked through the bars at the Ventrue. "You can wait out here, if you want. I should only be a few minutes."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not stand out here like some kind of target," Erica said. "But, um, could you help me over the fence?"

"Alright," K.T. grumbled, sticking his arms through the fence and cupping his hands. "Step up on my hands, and pull yourself over the top."

"Alright," Erica said. She stepped up on the makeshift step the mercenary had created for her, and grabbed on to the top of the fence. She started to pull herself over even as K.T. forced her upward, vaulting her over the fence and landing unceremoniously in a heap inside the cemetery. As she got back to her feet, K.T. was leaning against a gravestone, a smirk on his face. "I wish you told me you were going to throw me over," the Ventrue stated, indignant.

"Well, you're in," K.T. said with a bit of a smile. He turned and started into the dark graveyard, quietly walking through the rows of headstones. Erica dusted herself off a little but, then hurried to catch up with the mercenary.

"Um, K.T., who exactly are we supposed to be meeting?" the Ventrue inquired as she followed the Gangrel.

"A friend," K.T. replied without turning to her. "He should find us any second now, judging by the odor."

"Odor?" Erica repeated, taking a deep breath for the first time. She was immediately assaulted by the stench of rotting flesh, nearly making her gag. K.T. turned slowly, a slight smile on his face. Erica followed his line of sight, and easily found the source of the terrible smell.

"Nice night for a walk in the grave yard," the thing said, leaning against a gravestone. Stringy black hair ran down along a badly decomposed face and sunken, cataract covered brown eyes. Though he stood almost six feet tall, the hideous being looked so emaciated that he could not have been over a hundred and thirty pounds. As he saw her staring at him in revulsion, the thing drew his lipless mouth into a broad grin.

"What are you?" Erica breathed.

"He's Samedi, a fairly new vampire bloodline," K.T. replied. Then he turned his attention back to the rotting corpse. "Hi, Harry."

"Welcome back," Harry said, standing straight and walking over to the pair. "I see you brought a girlfriend with you this time. Don't tell me you've gone soft."

"Funny," K.T. said. "Harry, this is Erica. I kind of ended up with her by default after her pack got wiped out in Manhattan."

"Thanks a lot, K.T.," Erica grumbled. Harry laughed.

"K.T.'s never been very polite or nice," the Samedi pointed out. He extended his hand to shake. "Lovely to meet you, Erica."

Erica glanced down at Harry's putrescent hand, oozing puss from a lesion between two of his fingers. As she hesitated, K.T. stepped between the two of them, and shook Harry's hand for her.

"You love to do that to people, don't you?" K.T. inquired, saving the Ventrue from having to actually touch the Samedi. Harry turned a curious glance on K.T. for a moment, then shrugged.

"You always take my fun away," the rotting vampire said. "So, anyway, what brings you to Manhattan? You of all people are hardly one to just look up old friends on a whim. I haven't seen you in over a decade."

"Yeah, well, I needed a little information and had nowhere else to turn," K.T. said. "You think you can help me?"

"I might," Harry replied, beginning to walk farther into the cemetery. "But you'll have to make it fast. Marie visits every week at this time."

"Marie?" K.T. repeated, following along. Erica remained a few paces behind, still a bit repulsed by the disgusting vampire. Harry nodded and turned a smirk on the Gangrel.

"She comes up to visit her husband every Friday," the Samedi explained. "We've had some interesting conversations over the last six years."

"Six years?" K.T. echoed. "I've never known you to deal with many people over six days. I think you're the one going soft."

"You got that the other way around," Harry said with a laugh. "Most people don't like the way I smell. She's ninety now and says she should get used to the smell. I might end up embracing her before she dies."

"That would be worse than death," Erica said quietly behind him, more to herself than to the Samedi. Harry turned, and shrugged.

"Maybe to some self conscious people, but not to people like me," he said. Then he turned back to K.T. "Well, what's up?"

"I need to find out a bit about the Black Hand," K.T. said. "I think they've been sending an assassin after me and Erica for the last few nights. I'd like to know what for."

"Oh, is that it?" Harry asked sarcastically. "Should I walk on water or heal the sick while I'm at it?"

"That would be nice," Erica said sarcastically from behind him. Harry turned to her and flipped up his middle finger. K.T. stepped between the two quickly.

"I'm in a bind and I need some help," K.T. said. "You and I have traded information and services for a long time now. Can you help me or what?"

"Yeah, but, K.T., the Hand?" Harry pressed. "You've either gotten really arrogant or really stupid. Nobody fucks with the Hand, especially not here. This is the biggest Sabbat stronghold in the world outside of Mexico City!"

"I'm well aware of that," K.T. pointed out. "Look, I wasn't even going to take the job, but for some reason everyone thinks I have some personal stake in this, which I don't."

"Are you sure about that?" Harry asked, throwing a glance over at Erica.

"Positive!" K.T. answered emphatically. "Look, I know you don't like to tangle with the Hand, but we both know someone who has to. Is Stefano still in town?"

"You really don't think he's going to talk to you, do you?" Harry asked dubiously. "After all, last time you and him got together you cut his face open."

"Oh, come on, I was drunk," K.T. protested. "How can he still hold that against me?"

"He has a long memory," Harry pointed out. The Samedi hesitated for a moment, then shook his head in disgust and resignation. "Look, I'll see what I can find out from Stefano and a couple of others, but I can't make any promises. Meet me here tomorrow night and I'll let you know if I could find anything. Either way, you owe me big time, Corben."

"Just give a call the next time you need help," K.T. offered. "Anyway, you better get moving. You'll miss your big date."

"Alright," Harry said. He hesitated for a moment. "Hey, don't… disappear."

"I'll try not to," K.T. replied. "You either."

Harry nodded, and walked off into the graveyard. Erica watched him leave for a moment, then turned to K.T. as the Gangrel started for the fence.

"Who's this Stefano?" the Ventrue inquired. K.T. thought there was a slight edge to his ally's voice, but put it out of his mind for the time being.

"Stefano Giovanni owns several business interests in Little Italy," the Gangrel answered simply.

"Giovanni?" Erica repeated, surprised. "You know a Giovanni?"

"Just one," K.T. answered, as if everyone should know one. The Giovanni were a small, secretive clan of necromancers and businessmen, the chief rivals of the Sabbat in business interests across the city. Though smaller than even a single clan of the Sabbat, the Giovanni had amassed a staggering amount of influence in the mortal Mafia and police departments, making them difficult at best to root out of the city. In addition to their mortal retainers, the Giovanni were masters of necromancy, an almost unique form of magic that the Sabbat could not counter effectively.

"Great, and he's angry with you," Erica said. "What did you do to him?"

"Like Harry said, I cut his face open," K.T. answered. "We got into a fight at one of his restaurants, and since we were both drunk, it seemed logical to me to pull out my knife and make my point. No pun intended."

"Remind me not to have an argument with you when you're drunk," Erica said as the pair returned to the fence. K.T. pulled himself over, then helped Erica across the obstacle. "So where to now?" the Ventrue asked as K.T. started back into the streets of Brooklyn.

"I don't know, really," K.T. admitted. "Harry'll need a day to come up with his information, and we can't just sit around in the open because of our wannabe Assamite friend. We need a place to lay low for a while."

"I have an idea," Erica volunteered.

"What's that?" K.T. asked, not knowing what to expect from his young companion.

"Let's go shopping," Erica answered with a smile. K.T. was about to give her an emphatic no when he noticed the look of desperation in her eyes. She needed something to keep her mind off of Jerry's death, and this was the best she could come up with at the time.

"Fine," K.T. grumbled with a sigh of disgust and resignation. "Let's go shopping."

****

VIII

Cordoba padded up the metal staircase silently, watching the brightly lit stairwell for any signs of trouble. Standing halfway up the flight, Peter kept his Tommy gun at the ready, his hideous features shrouded by a wide brimmed hat, a heavy muffler, and a knee length trench coat. The Nosferatu stopped at the white metal door at the top of the steps, and pointed questioning to the black stenciled number six at eye level. Cordoba nodded his affirmation, and Peter gently pulled the door open and disappeared into the hallway beyond. Cordoba followed suit, and quickly made his way to the left down the narrow, whitewashed hallway. A radio could be heard forecasting the weather somewhere in the hall, while a child cried behind another. A third door concealed an piano concerto being played with flawless precision.

Cordoba gestured to that last door, and Peter quickly made his way to the side of the frame. Cordoba slid up along the wall to the door, listening for anything over the beautiful piano music from the apartment beyond. Finally, Cordoba gestured to Peter, and the Nosferatu kicked down the door.

The apartment's single occupant did not even look up as Cordoba and Peter burst into the wide, hardwood floored living room, bare except for a grand piano set near the far wall. Peter raised his Tommy gun, ready to fire, but the young, brown haired man at the piano did not so much as glance from the keys as he concentrated on the difficult chords of the concerto. Cordoba watched the young man for a long moment, then turned to Peter. The Nosferatu simply shrugged in confusion. Finally, Cordoba crossed the bare room to the piano. Cordoba cleared his throat and rested his arm on top of the piano before the young man noticed him there.

"Oh, Cordoba!" the young man exclaimed, a broad smile on his face. "I didn't hear you come in! Have you been waiting long?"

Cordoba slammed the piano shut, but the man was able to get his fingers out before the top hit them.

"What the fuck game are you playing, Graime?" the Panders demanded furiously. "You told me that nomadic pack was a bunch of spies for the Camarilla! And you said you had the evidence to prove it! Now I want to know what the fuck is going on, who that Gangrel is that you've been chasing all over the city, and where the fuck my evidence is!"

"You seem a bit uptight," Graime said matter of factly. Cordoba backhanded him off of his stool. Peter moved up quickly, training his machinegun on the piano player.

"I am a bit up-fucking-tight!" the Panders bellowed. "Now what the fuck is going on?"

"Alright, I'll give you what you want," Graime said meekly, picking himself up off the floor. "The evidence is in my bedroom. May I go get it?"

"Keep your gun on him, Pete," Cordoba ordered. The Nosferatu nodded, and raised his Tommy gun as he followed the piano player into the bedroom.

The two had been in the bedroom for only a moment when Cordoba heard Peter gasp in pain. Something thumped onto the floor as Cordoba drew his Glock and his long, serrated knife, but before the Panders could reach the bedroom door, Graime reappeared with Peter's Tommy gun and his own Skorpion machine pistol. The piano player opened up madly with both weapons, raking the room with gunfire as Cordoba dove and rolled across the floor. The Panders sprang to one knee and opened up on his opponent, but Graime simply absorbed one hit from the Panders and opened up again, once more forcing Cordoba to race for cover behind the grand piano.

"The Old Man of the Mountain calls for your death, as well!" Graime cackled, dropping his spent magazines and reloading theatrically. Cordoba bounced to his feet and let off a quick flurry of bullets, but then Graime opened up again. "Infidels surround me, yet I will not falter in my cause!"

"You fucking crazy Malkavian!" the Panders shouted. He jumped to his feet, and pointed his Glock at the piano. "If you shoot at me again I'll wreck your piano!"

"No! Not the piano!" Graime exclaimed, suddenly sounding thoroughly terrified. Cordoba nearly laughed in amusement, but held his mirth down and cracked an evil smile. He had tried the bizarre threat as a last ditch effort to get the Malkavian off his back; they were notorious for being insane, but he had never thought that his threat would actually work.. "Let's be rational, Cordoba, the piano had nothing to do with this!"

"Poor thing was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," the Panders said, watching the Malkavian carefully for any moves. He backed off a step, towards the door; the ease with which Graime had killed Peter was starting to make him nervous, and Graime had his thoroughly outgunned at the moment. 

"Please, just don't hurt the piano," Graime pleaded in a worried voice. Cordoba smiled, and backed off another step. 

"Then don't fuck with me, or the piano gets it," the Panders said, still trying to keep himself from laughing at the absurdity of the situation. He thought he had burst out into laughter for a second then, until he realized that it was Graime who was laughing.

"You stupid twit!" the Malkavian exclaimed. "Do you think I'm insane or something?"

"Oh, shit," Cordoba grumbled.

The Panders was off and running in a heartbeat, trying to beat out the torrent of gunfire that Graime unleashed from both of his weapons. Cordoba raced out of the apartment in a blur of motion, but still took four rounds through his lower back as he dove into the hallway and smacked into the far wall. Rolling along the wall and regaining his balance quickly, Cordoba whirled and backpedaled to the metal fire door, opening up with the last rounds of his Glock as Graime peeked through the doorway of his apartment. With the Malkavian pinned in his room momentarily, the Panders spun and barreled through the door, half jumping and half running down each flight in his attempt to escape the apartment. In the narrow confines of the apartment building, Graime had a distinct advantage, as he was able to fill the air with a volley of lethal gunfire, but the streets would allow Cordoba to even the odds slightly. The Panders ducked back behind a car and waited for the Malkavian to come to the front door, but Graime seemed reluctant to come out into the open. Finally, with no sign of Peter's killer and the sounds of police sirens on the way, Cordoba rushed off into the night, deciding to finish the Malkavian off later in the night.

K.T. sat back against the wall of a large, ornate mausoleum, waiting patiently for Harry to show himself again. Erica continued to stand, glancing around the cemetery with a measure of nervousness, her hands stuffed into the front pockets of the black jeans she had bought the night before. K.T. looked down at his own new blue jeans and black duster, and silently admitted to himself that doing a little shopping at the end of the previous night had not been such a bad idea, after all. While appearance had usually been a secondary concern at best to the mercenary, having clothing with no bullet holes or tears was a welcome comfort. K.T. reached into his duster pocket after a moment, finding the pack of Marlboro reds that he had bought, and put one to his lips. Erica turned as he struck a match, ready to say something to him, but then she thought better of it and turned back to the fence in the distance.

"Something on your mind?" K.T. asked as he lit his cigarette. Erica turned back to him.

"Nothing," the Ventrue answered, a bit quickly. K..T. chuckled slightly.

"For a Ventrue, you're a horrible liar," the mercenary stated with a bit of a smile. For a brief instant, something in the back of his mind told him to cut the conversation off, but he ignored it for the time being.

"Are you sure we can trust this… thing to get the information we need?" Erica asked. "I mean, he could just pretend to get us some information and pass it off to us."

"I've known Harry for about twenty years," K.T. stated, ignoring the slight to his deformed friend. "Besides, he's getting the information as a favor. If he ever wants to call in that favor, he'd better be on the level."

"That makes me feel a whole lot better," Erica grumbled, kicking idly at the ground.

"Was that really what you wanted to ask, or does this have something to do with a Toreador _antitribu_ that makes her haven in Manhattan?" K.T. inquired. The mercenary cursed himself for asking the question as soon as the words escaped his mouth. Erica turned back to him quickly.

"Not at all," the Ventrue replied defensively. "She's a tramp. I… I was just kind of surprised you let her get that far."

"Oh," K.T. said, nodding slightly.

"That's the truth," Erica said, glaring at the mercenary.

"Uh huh."

"Stop patronizing me!" the Ventrue ordered.

"Alright," K.T. said, blowing a cloud of smoke in front of him and crushing out his cigarette.

"You are so infuriating!" Erica exclaimed. She was about to storm off when she heard something in the cemetery. K.T. reached for his gun as he heard the noise himself, but stopped as he saw Harry walking quickly towards them. The Gangrel stood up, his hand not leaving his gun. Even through his skeletal features, it was clear that Harry was nervous and frightened.

"Harry, you alright?" K.T. asked. The Samedi strode up to him, and grabbed him by the collar.

"Get out of my graveyard, right now," he said evenly. "If I ever find you here again I'll kill you myself."

"I take it this is bad," Erica said, standing to one side of the pair. Harry turned to her, his eyes full of indignance.

"Yes, this is bad," the Samedi confirmed angrily. "I don't know what the fuck the two of you have gotten involved in, but it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut about you. Now get out of my grave yard, and don't' ever come back. Sorry, Corben, but I value my life a whole lot more than I value yours."

"What the hell are you talking about?" K.T. asked. "They who?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, then let go of the mercenary's shirt.

"I don't know," the Samedi answered. "I don't even know if Stefano knows them. I made a meeting with Stefano, but instead of meeting him, there was someone else. I can't even tell you what he looked like, because I don't remember! Look, K.T., whoever these guys are, they're bad news. Now get out of my grave yard and don't come back."

"Shit," K.T. said, suddenly feeling as though he was standing in the crosshairs of a gun. He turned to Erica quickly, his eyes searching the darkness for any signs of the sniper rifle he was certain was trained on him. "Alright, Harry, we're going. Erica, let's get out of here, now."

Erica nodded, and opened her mouth to give one last retort to Harry. K.T. had almost turned away from the Ventrue when he noticed that her lips moved with no sound. Gone also was the quiet crunch of leaves under her feet as she took a step towards the mercenary.

K.T. dove forward even as Erica started to look around in confusion, flattening the Ventrue beneath him. The mercenary felt a sharp blade skim just over his head as he hit the ground and rolled over Erica, jumping back to his feet with his Ruger drawn. Harry looked at the Gangrel for a moment, his eyes blank, but then the Samedi's head slid from his shoulders and his decapitated body slowly crumpled to the ground. Nowhere around him could K.T. see the assassin, but the unnatural silence, the hallmark of an Assamite assassination, still smothered any noise the two fugitives made.

K.T. spun quickly, searching for the assassin, and suddenly felt the unseen killer's blade cut through the skin of his neck. The mercenary dove away from the sharp cut, one hand going to the slash on his neck even as he thanked his luck for having him turn at the right instant; had he not turned, he would have joined Harry in death. K.T. rolled to the ground and bounced to one knee again, just as Erica regained her footing and started to blaze away in every direction with her Glock, trying to ward off the assassin with her wild spray of bullets. Erica tried to scream something to the Gangrel, terror fixed on her features, but the silence made her voice utterly useless. Quickly K.T. spun in a circle, trying to find something to shoot at.

"-fuck is he?" Erica suddenly screamed. The silence disappeared as abruptly as it had come, leaving the two vampires confused and nervous. Erica was shaking now, and for good reason; whoever the assassin was, he was making their former would be killer look like a rank amateur. 

"I don't know," the Gangrel admitted. "We have to get out of here before-"

The blanket of silence descended once again, cutting off the mercenary. K.T. dove forward again, knocking Erica to the ground with him, but this time the unseen assassin's blade ripped through the back of his thigh to the bone. The mercenary screamed in pain in absolute silence, rolling forward and spinning around to fire on his opponent. Something flickered above him as the Gangrel fired, and K.T. jumped back to his feet, ready to gun down his attacker. He was only upright for a second before his torn leg crumpled under him, useless until he could devote time and blood to fully heal the injury. K.T. dropped on his back and raised his Ruger to fire again, but a curved, glittering blade suddenly knocked the monstrous revolver to the side.

Then the assassin was standing over him, his gleaming scimitar drawn back behind his left shoulder as he prepared to strike. He was a swarthy, sinister looking Arab, dressed in loose black robes and a turban that hid most of his mustached face. Two dark, cold eyes burned into the mercenary as the Assamite smiled grimly, prepared to take K.T.'s head from his shoulders.

A bright spotlight suddenly shone on the pair, and sirens blared to life in the cemetery. K.T. and the assassin both glanced back to see a police cruiser rolling to a halt on the narrow cemetery road, and two officers leapt out of the vehicle with their guns drawn.

"Drop the sword and put your hands up!" one of the two officers shouted, taking a quick step forward and leveling his Glock on the assassin. 

"Next time, Corben," the assassin hissed. Then he turned to run.

K.T. grabbed his Ruger again and tried to take a shot at the fleeing Assamite, but the mercenary had never seen anyone move so quickly in his life. In the instant it had taken for the Gangrel to retrieve his revolver, the assassin had seemingly disappeared into the cemetery without a trace. The two officers that had inadvertently saved the two vampires' lives rushed forward a few steps, but did not risk a shot at the fleeing assassin.

"Jesus, did you see that?" the younger of the two officers asked, still staring after the Assamite. The older officer turned quickly on the pair on the ground, covering K.T. as he saw the monstrous revolver in the mercenary's hands.

"Alright buddy, just put the gun down and let's sort this whole thing out," the cop said, watching K.T. with nervous eyes. K.T. kept one eye on the officer and another on the direction where the Assamite had vanished, not willing in the least to give up his weapon. "Come on, man, just make it easy on yourself. We're here to help you!"

K.T. hesitated for another second, but Erica suddenly opened fire next to his ear. The older officer dropped back as he was hit, the first shot catching him in the shoulder and two more punching into his vest before he was finally caught in the throat. The younger officer spun back on the pair and raised his gun to fire, but Erica turned her fire on him and emptied the rest of her magazine into the unfortunate young man. As the two officers fell to the ground, unmoving, Erica quickly jumped to her feet, reloading her gun as she kicked the older officer in the chest.

"What the fuck are you doing?" K.T. demanded, shocked by the Ventrue's brutal actions. Erica turned to him, surprised. "You just gunned down two cops! Don't you think we have enough problems on our hands without adding two more cops to the list of people we've killed?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Erica exclaimed. "We just about got killed by some new assassin, and you're worried about two mortals? Where are your priorities?"

"Forget it," K.T. groaned, remembering once more the Sabbat's brutal policy toward mortals. In their eyes, mortals were nothing more than food or playthings, and the younger Sabbat thought nothing of killing mortals on a whim. The mercenary pushed himself to one knee slowly, still trying to completely heal the extensive damage that his leg had sustained. The assassin must have expected him to dive, and had aimed specifically for an incapacitating strike before he moved in for the kill. Only the arrival of the two police officers had saved the mercenary's life. K.T. looked back to Erica, who was kneeling next to the younger of the two officers. She already had his Glock tucked into her jeans. After a moment of examining the officer, she turned back to K.T.

"Well, they're dead," the Ventrue pointed out. She glanced down hungrily at the man's neck, then back to the mercenary. "May as well make use of the blood before it all spills out."

Erica did not wait for the Gangrel to respond, but simply lifted the officer slightly and bit into his neck. K.T. thought about arguing the point for a moment, but then decided against it. He would need all the blood he could find if the new assassin showed up again. The mercenary slowly stood, and limped over to the other officer.

"Sorry, but I need this blood a little more than you do right now," the Gangrel said. Then he sank his fangs into the officer's neck, draining as much blood as possible out of the corpse. While a pair of bloodless corpses posed a major threat to the Masquerade that kept vampires hidden from the mortals, the Gangrel was certain that the Sabbat leadership would cover the murders up in their own brutally effective way. As K.T. finished and stood up, he could hear more sirens in the distance. Erica was already at the police cruiser, opening the driver's side door.

"How nice!" the Ventrue said brightly as K.T. turned to her. "They even left it running for us!"

"You want to steal a police car?" K.T. asked, incredulous.

"Well, how else did you want to get out of here before the other cops showed up?" Erica inquired. She waited for an answer for only a second before she ducked into the vehicle and gunned the engine.

"Great," K.T. grumbled, finally opening the passenger side door and dropping into the seat. "This is just great."

It was nearly forty minutes before Erica brought the stolen cruiser to a halt in the parking lot of a Dunkin' Donuts only a block or so from Brower Park. As Erica stopped the car, she looked over at K.T., and smiled slightly.

"Just seems appropriate, leaving a cop car at a Dunkin' Donuts," the Ventrue said lightly. K.T. folded his arms across his chest, and said nothing. "Don't you think?"

"You and I are going to have a long talk about killing mortals and the unwanted attention that it draws," K.T. stated, looking at Erica for the first time since they had left the cemetery.

"Jesus, K.T., we had to find some way to get rid of them," the Ventrue said. "Or maybe you wanted to spend the rest of the night trying to get out of a morgue? I bet that would have really helped our situation."

"We are now responsible for the deaths of four police officers," K.T. explained as he got out of the car and looked around the parking lot. "Do you know what that means?"

"The police academy needs to get four new recruits?" Erica guessed with a smirk.

"No," K.T. replied sternly as he started away from the police cruiser. "It means that we are currently the two most wanted criminals in this city, and everyone from Staten Island to the Bronx will be looking for us."

"They're just mortals," Erica said, keeping up with the Gangrel. "We can handle it!"

K.T. turned to Erica, prepared to rip intothe young Sabbat for her lack of concern about a massive manhunt, when a black Lexus pulled up in front of the pair. K.T. stopped and started to turn around, his hand swiftly dropping to the butt of his Ruger, but suddenly felt a sharp point at his spine. Sighing in resignation, K.T. put his hands up. Erica glanced back to see a fairly large man with dark hair and eyes standing behind K.T., somehow familiar.

"Good evening, Mister Corben," the man stated evenly. "Before you think of trying anything stupid, I might remind you that a klaive can be just ass deadly to a vampire as it is to a Garou.

"I must be the most popular person in this city," K.T. grumbled. He had learned enough about klaives, the ritual combat daggers of the werewolves, to know that the weapons were indeed deadly; the spirits that the lupines bound into their klaives made the fighting knives as lethal as sunlight or fire. "May I ask what I've done to upset the lupines?"

"Nothing, yet," another man replied, stepping out of the passenger side of the black Lexus. This man was smaller than the knife wielder, with short brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Erica could see a strong hint of Russian in the newcomer's features as he turned a cool, calculating smile on the mercenary. The man straightened out his expensive, black wool overcoat as he looked the pair over, just barely revealing the hand tailored, charcoal gray suit he wore beneath. "I'm glad I caught up to you, Mister Corben. Roar of Thunder has told me all about you."

"Oh?" K.T. asked, glancing over his shoulder at the larger man. Erica now knew why the man seemed familiar; the man was the Shadow Lord that they had met in Central Park. Roar of Thunder smiled slightly at her, then gestured to the rear door of the Lexus with his free hand.

"Get in the car," the larger Shadow Lord instructed.

"Do I have a choice?" K.T. inquired.

"Well, yes, but you might want to make up your mind quickly," the smaller man said. "One of the officers you, how shall we say, dealt with was a Glass Walker kinfolk. Word has reached them already, and I would wager that they are out for blood."

"Kinfolk?" Erica repeated, glancing to K.T.

"Relatives," the mercenary explained simply. Then he turned his attention to the smaller man. "How do I know you're not going to give us to the Glass Walkers?"

"Mister Corben, as a Shadow Lord, I understand that there are unfortunate casualties in every war," the smaller man explained. "Some people are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now, please, make up your mind. We're standing a few feet from the stolen cruiser of two slain officers, and every cop in this city is converging on eastern Brooklyn."

K.T. hesitated for a moment, then turned a thoroughly false smile to the smaller Shadow Lord.

"Well, how can I refuse your generous offer?" the mercenary inquired.

"I thought you'd see things my way," the Shadow Lord stated. "He turned back to the car, and got back into the seat. K.T. slid into the rear of the vehicle. After a long moment of hesitation, Erica got in behind him, and shut the door. The car pulled out of the parking lot in relative silence, leaving Roar of Thunder behind. The Lexus had gone almost a block when K.T. broke the silence.

"Do you have a name?" the mercenary inquired of the man sitting in the front passenger seat.

"My name is Alex," the Shadow Lord replied. He waited another moment, then glanced up in the mirror. "So, what is it that the two of you know about the Black Hand? It seems they are going through a lot of trouble to eliminate you."

"Well, actually, right now I'm not sure," K.T. admitted. He might have been able to lie to Roar of Thunder, but Alex was another matter altogether. The man had the look and feel of a lawyer, or at least someone who was thoroughly experienced in interrogations and spotting deceptions. The mercenary could only hope that his admission would not get him killed. "All I know is that I've been in town for a week, and almost everyone I've met with about two exceptions has tried to kill me."

"Two exceptions?" Alex repeated. "One of those two wouldn't happen to be the third member of your party, the Lasombra that was gunned down yesterday night, would it?"

"You knew about that?" Erica asked, astonished. Alex chuckled slightly.

"That's how we found you again," the Shadow Lord explained. "It took us about one night to figure out that we can just follow the trail of gunfights to the two of you. As for this third member of your party, are you so sure he's dead?"

"He was shot in the head with a phosphorous round!" Erica exclaimed. "Of course he's dead!"

"Oh, yes, of course," Alex mused, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Erica started to lean forward. K.T. noticed a barely perceptible movement in front, but could tell that the Shadow Lord was ready for any move the Ventrue made.

"Listen, if you have proof that he's alive, tell us," K.T. directed, putting a restraining hand on Erica's arm. "If not, then drop the subject."

"Well, we have nothing concrete, but one of my allies happened to notice that your friend was picked up before the real cops and ambulances got there," Alex stated. "It may have just been other Sabbat, coming to pick up the body." The Shadow Lord paused for a moment for effect, then continued. "Or perhaps the Black Hand found him, and picked him up for interrogation."

"Where did they take him?" Erica asked, lunging at the hope that her last packmate was actually alive. "Did you see?"

"Unfortunately, no," Alex replied. "But a quick check of all the normal Sabbat dumping grounds in Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan turned up no sign of his body."

"How do you know where we dump our bodies?" Erica asked indignantly. "How do you know so much about us?"

"Miss Blackwell, let me dispel a popular myth most people hold as true," Alex started. K.T. almost had to smile when he heard the condescending tone in the Shadow Lord's voice; Erica was probably infuriated by it already. "I do not run around killing things indiscriminately and howling at the moon. I leave that for the morons who can do nothing else. My tribe can gather information as well as, in fact far better than, your little sect of rebels without a clue. Do not insult my intelligence again. Remember that I hold your lives in my hands, and should I choose to do so, I will leave you on the nearest corner and alert every police officer and Glass Walker in this borough as to your whereabouts, your description, and your crime."

"Jesus, I'm sorry," Erica said, trying to sound sarcastic. K.T. picked up on the fear in her voice, however, and glanced up to the Shadow Lord. Alex still faced forward, but from the mercenary's angle he could see a hint of a satisfied smile on the Lupine's face.

"So the Black Hand is planning some kind of palace revolt in the city, are they?" the Shadow Lord inquired, returning to the subject of K.T.'s problems without any further thought of his warning. K.T. shrugged, uncertain if the Hand really was making a power play against the city's cardinal. "I had long been hearing rumors and reports of the Black Hand being a separate, but connected, entity within the Sabbat. Tell me, were you at all connected with a Nosferatu bishop by the name of Halsey?"

"You know about him, too?" Erica asked, once more surprised. Alex allowed himself a smug smile in the rear view mirror.

"Yes, I do," the Shadow Lord confirmed. "Some of my contacts have dealt with him in the past. Unfortunately, I have not been able to install any direct contacts into the Sabbat. But I think that this problem may be easily remedied by the two of you."

"I have more than enough problems right now," K.T. stated. "I want out of this mess, not farther into it."

Mister Corben, I think you misunderstand the situation," Alex stated. "Whether you like it or not, you are involved in this. The Sabbat hunt traitors to the ends of the earth, but I'm certain that you already knew that. Should either of you try to leave this city without first proving your innocence in the deaths of up to two bishops, an entire Sabbat pack, and complicity in a scheme by the Black Hand to oust none other than Francisco Domingo de Polonia, possibly the most powerful Sabbat Cardinal in the New World, you will both be hunted down and killed like dogs. I'm simply offering you some help for some information."

"I told you, I don't know what the Hand is up to," K.T. pointed out. Alex smiled.

"You're going to have to find out," the Shadow Lord reminded the mercenary. K.T. sank back into his seat with a sigh of disgust. "And to show you what a useful ally I can be, Mister Corben, I'll even alleviate the pressure of the Glass Walkers. Who would you like to see blamed for the death of their kinfolk in the cemetery?"

"Anyone other than us," K.T. answered. While he was far from pleased with being suddenly allied to a Lupine, especially a Shadow Lord, the Russian's contacts and influence might be useful in getting out of the mess.

"Of course," Alex said with a nod. "Now that we've sealed our little alliance here, where would you like to continue your search for answers?"

"Little Italy," K.T. answered.

The two bouncers at the narrow entrance doors of the Limelight never even attempted to stop him as he pushed through the crowds waiting for admission to the club. Cordoba's face was a mask of rage as he shoved one of the bouncers out of his way and stormed up the dark steps of the one time church and into the club itself. Green, blue, and red lights flashed from the dance floor up onto the tiers that held the bar and the battered old couches for patrons that were too drunk or high to stand. Deafening industrial metal music screamed out of the monstrous speakers set down on the dance floor, but it could only partially drown out the constant, shouted conversations of the crowds around the bar. Cordoba glared at the bar for a long moment, then simply strode up to a young couple standing at the bar, staring at the tattooed neck of the woman of the pair. It only took a second for her date to turn to Cordoba, swallowing his fear as he tried to make himself appear tougher than he was.

"You got a problem?" the young man demanded, doing a somewhat decent job of keeping the nerves from his voice. Cordoba said nothing, but yanked the girl away from the bar by her hair and sank his fangs into her exposed neck. After taking just enough blood to force away his hunger, the Panders tossed the girl back into her boyfriend. His feeding done for the moment, Cordoba turned back to the huge dance floor.

The Panders had only taken one step when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Cordoba spun quickly and clamped his right hand around the young man's throat, lifting him off of the floor in his viselike grip.

"Ever see Star Wars, asshole?" Cordoba growled. The man nodded as much as he could, his face a mask of terror. "I like Darth Vader. I like strangling people like Darth Vader. Touch me again and you get to find out how good I am at strangling people like Darth Vader."

Cordoba held the young man off the floor for another second, then tossed him back into the bar and his girlfriend. As the Panders turned and stalked off into the club, the other patrons that had seen the display moved quickly out of his way, allowing Cordoba to make his way to the narrow metal staircase that led to the topmost level of the Limelight.

Cordoba crested the third tier of the nightclub, and pushed his way through a wild assortment of more than a score of young miscreants. Ten of them dressed like Cordoba, favoring simple jeans and leather jackets, while a half dozen others gave a clear representation of the darkly dressed, teen angst Goth culture that was so prevalent in the night club. A final half dozen bore the trademark deformities of Clan Nosferatu, and wore pinstriped suits reminiscent of the gangsters of the Prohibition Era. Cordoba dropped into one of the battered, black leather couches on the tier, and looked back over the group of Sabbat vampires that followed him.

"Get your things together," the Panders said angrily, speaking largely to his own pack. "We're torching Graime's place within the hour.

"What happened to Peter?" Tony asked, taking a step forward. Tony was Peter's first childe, and would probably succeed Peter as pack leader of the Nosferatu.

"He's dead," Cordoba replied bluntly. "Graime turned on us. Turns out he must have been setting us up for something."

"Graime killed Peter?" Barry asked, looking up. Barry was one of two Tremere _antitribu_ in the largely Toreador pack that controlled the Limelight itself, a thin, almost emaciated man with pale skin, dyed black hair, and a pair of red tinted glasses covering his blue eyes. "How?"

"Graime staked the bastard, then turned on me," Cordoba said. "What does it matter? Peter's dead, and I want that fucker's head before dawn."

"So, what you're saying here, is that one Jason Graime, killed Peter and chased you off," Barry concluded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Cordoba stood up, and walked over to the far smaller Tremere.

"That is exactly what I'm saying," Cordoba confirmed, leaning over the Tremere. Barry shrank back slightly, but it was hardly the expression of submission that the Panders would have wanted from the usually soft spoken, subservient vampire.

"And, just for clarification, Jason Graime is the person that you nearly killed out of hand when he first came into town, right?" Tony inquired. Cordoba turned back to the Nosferatu as Tony leaned back against one of the support beams and lit up his cigar.

"Look, Graime killed Peter, and almost killed me," Cordoba snapped. 

"You wouldn't happen to be making all this up to consolidate control over Peter's pack, would you?" Hector inquired. Cordoba turned once more, rapidly growing furious with the show of defiance from all three of his packs. First the normally silent Barry had spoken up, and then Tony had begun to imply suspicions of his own. Now Hector was joining in on the act. Hector, Cordoba's first childe, had been the pack leader's greatest disappointment. For almost five years, the pair had been able to work together, but now the two hated each other for nearly as many reasons as there minutes in a day. Now Hector constantly called Cordoba's leadership into question, and the pack leader was certain that this was another one of his unruly childe's schemes to oust him from power.

"Don't play your petty fucking games with me, childe," Cordoba growled. "Why would I lie?"

"Maybe you're in with Graime on something," Natasha, Peter's first childe, said. She had been beautiful once, when the Nosferatu had taken the Russian immigrant in, but now she was as hideous as any of her clan. "Maybe it was something Peter knew about, so you arranged this whole thing."

"Watch your mouth, Natasha, before I tear off your jaw," Cordoba growled. In the past the threat had worked, mostly because he had on occasion ripped people's jaws off, but this time Natasha and Hector weren't backing down. "I hope you're listening, because I'd hate to ruin that pretty face of yours."

"She's listening, but I think you're outnumbered on this one," someone else said from the back of the group of Nosferatu. The voice was impossibly familiar. Cordoba's eyes went wide as he saw Peter stagger to the front of the group, riddled with bullet holes and in intense pain. "You left me to die, you bastard. You fucker, I should have known you were up to something when you said we should whack those nomads."

"Peter?" the Panders exclaimed. "You survived? I thgought he staked you!"

"He did, but you didn't know my heart moved a little when I was Embraced," Peter spat. "You sure didn't care if I survived earlier, when you put four or five bullets into me, you bastard."

"I think maybe it's time we had a change in leadership, Cordoba," Hector growled. The pack leader turned from Peter to his childe, raqpidly trying to regain his composure after the shock of both seeing Peter alive and hearing his wild story. "Trying to kill a fellow Sabbat? I think that's just about the worst thing I've ever heard."

"In fact, I think the punishment for killing a fellow Sabbat member is death," one of the other Nosferatu, Tony, growled. He tipped his fedora forward a little, and chuckled. "Death by diablerie, Cordoba. Now we gots ta kill ya."

"You traitorous bastards!" Cordoba shouted. Tony whipped up his tommy gun. Natasha drew a .45 automatic. Cordoba drew his own guns as his once loyal packs turned on him. He had no idea what had happened, but he was determined to put Peter down for his outrageous and utterly false story.

"Wait!" Jaime shouted, jumping between the pack leader and the rest of the packs. "This is crazy! Why would Cordoba, of all people, turn on us?"

"Get out of the way or get killed!" Natasha ordered furiously. Cordoba glkanced back over his shoulder as his youngest childe bought hi8m precious seconds, judging the distance to the dance floor below. It was a three story drop, but the mortals thrashing around below would be enough cushioning to prevent any major injuries.

"This is totally wrong!" Jaime exclaimed, appealing desperately to the others. "We should at least have a trial, and get to the bottom of what really happened!"

"We already did," Tony stated with a cold grin. He cocked his Tommy gun and fired.

Cordoba moved with all the speed that his celerity enhanced body could muster. In a heartbeat he grabbed Jaime by the back of her blouse, dodged Tony's first burst, and jumped backwards over the railing. Tony's bullets skimmed only a fraction of an inch over the Panders' nose as he toppled from the tier, hitting the crowd a second later. Screams of pain and surprise went up as Cordoba and Jaime smashed through the mass of people below them, and the pack leader could feel someone crumple below him as he crushed the person with the full brunt of his waist. Cordoba bounced off of the unfortunate mortal and leapt back to his feet, already looking back to the railing above. Hector was already leading the bulk of the packs to the stairs to follow the pair down, but Tony and Natasha were turning their guns over the railing for a shot below.

"Come on!" Cordoba ordered, grabbing Jaime by her arm and dragging her through the crowd. The pair crashed through the dance floor and reached the huge, cathedral exit doors quickly, but Cordoba could already see the first of his packs shoving through the dance floor. Without another moment to lose, the Panders rammed the doors open and rushed out into the darkness.

"What the hell is going on?" Jaime asked desperately, looking back to the doors for a second.

"I don't know," Cordoba replied quickly. "How'd you get here?"

"Hector drove," Jaime replied. "Cordoba, what's going on?"

"I don't have time to explain," the older Panders said quickly. He took a step south, heading for the nearest subway station that he could think of, but Jaime would not budge. "Come on, I'll explain when we get someplace safe!"

"Please just tell me you're not involved with Graime," Jaime said. "Please tell me you didn't try to kill Peter yourself."

"I'm not involved with Graime, and I didn't try to kill; Peter," Cordoba answered quickly. "Can we go now?"

"Alright," Jaime said. "I believe you."

"Thank you," Cordoba said. Then he turned and rushed down the Avenue of the Americas, trying to find someplace to hide from his traitorous packs.

The two had only made it one block before Cordoba heard a car screeching around the corner of Twentieth Street. Without even looking behind him, the Panders could identify the distinctive roar of Hector's souped up Monte Carlo, at this point most likely loaded with the gun toting maniacs that were once loyal to him. Cordoba pushed himself even harder, calling upon his discipline of celerity to make him faster, carrying Jaime off the ground by one arm. Despite his superhuman speed, the Monte Carlo was rapidly gaining. Cordoba looked ahead to the nearest alley, only a few yards away, and the Panders raced headlong for it as bullets began to whine off of the pavement and scream past his ears.

Cordoba nearly slammed into the alley wall as he cut into the dark corridor, throwing Jaime ahead of him before he crushed her against the brick building ahead of him. The Monte Carlo tore past, and a quick flurry of poorly aimed bullets ripped through the alley for a brief instant. Once the car had passed them by, Cordoba turned and hurried back into the alley, reaching a nine foot wooden fence only a few yards down the passage.

"Come on!" the Panders shouted, turning back to Jaime. "Over the fence!"

Jaime hurried back to the fence as Cordoba pulled himself to the top of the barrier, jumping for her sire's outstretched arm. The caught his hand just as a half dozen figures appeared at the mouth of the alley, weapons already raised to fire. Cordoba started to haul Jaime up with his potence enhanced strength, ready to hurl his childe over his head.

Two bullets struck him in the chest and a third creased his scalp, knocking Cordoba from the top of the fence before he could drag Jaime over the obstacle. The younger vampire slid from his grasp as Cordoba crashed to the ground on the other side of the fence as the alley was filled with gunfire. Jaime screamed in pain for only a second before she was silenced by the hail of gunfire.

"Jaime!" Cordoba screamed, drawing his own gun. He shot off his entire magazine through the fence, then started to climb back to the other side when he heard the car come back. He hated the idea of leaving his last loyal pack member behind, but there was nothing more he could do. Using all the speed his celerity could give him, the once proud pack leader disappeared into the darkness.

"You know, for all the time I've been in Manhattan, I've never been to Little Italy."

"I wonder why that is," K.T. stated simply as he made his way along Broome Street. His destination, a five story apartment building of red brick and white framed windows, was only a few doors farther down the street. Erica followed a step behind the mercenary, looking around at the quaint brick apartment buildings and the old style Italian delis like a tourist. Although Little Italy had shrunk to a tourist trap only a few blocks on a side, Broome Street still held some of the old Italian roots that had created the ethnic ghetto over a century ago. K.T. glanced back to her, and contained a sigh of disgust. "Maybe because this area is controlled by the Glass Walkers and the Giovanni."

"That might just be it," Erica stated, a bit of sarcasm edging her voice as she followed the mercenary into one of the apartment buildings. K.T. decided not to comment any further as he pushed through a single glass door into a five story apartment building, hoping that maybe, just once, Erica could keep her mouth shut. Without waiting to see if the Ventrue had walked into the building behind him, K.T. strode across the narrow, short foyer and called the elevator down. Erica caught up to the Gangrel as the ornate, brown doors of the elevator opened, and the pair rode up to the fifth floor in silence.

The elevator opened into an exceedingly short hallway, with one door on either end. K.T. turned without hesitation to the left, remembering all too well where Stefano Giovanni lived from his last visit to New York. At that point, the Gangrel mercenary had been well paid to serve as bodyguard for a visiting member of the small Italian clan. Now, no one was paying him and everyone wanted to kill him. The mercenary pushed his current streak of misfortune out of his mind, and knocked on the black painted door.

"Think he's home?" Erica inquired.

"Maybe," the mercenary replied. "Try not to act too arrogant once we get inside."

"You're the one he's angry with, not me," Erica reminded him. K.T. closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting off any retort he might have for his younger partner. He opened his eyes again as the apartment door opened.

"What are you doing here?" a large, obviously Italian man asked in a voice that was far less than friendly. His black hair was slicked back in a ponytail, and his dark eyes regarded the Gangrel with a mixture of surprise and hate. He folded his arms across the chest of his Armani suit and glared at K.T. as he waited for a reply.

"I was just wondering if Stefano was in tonight," K.T. replied, putting on a smile that he hoped did not look too false to Stefano's bodyguard, Enzo. Enzo Giovanni had not yet been a vampire when K.T. had first met him, but was still an effective and lethal combatant. "Just let him know I need to talk. It's about Harry."

"Hold on for a minute," Enzo stated curtly. Then he shut the door in K.T.'s face.

"So far, so good," Erica remarked sarcastically. K.T. took another deep breath, and decided not to shoot the Ventrue for the time being. Enzo opened the door again after another minute.

"He says he'll talk to you," the bodyguard said. "But hand over the gun and the knife first."

"Alright," K.T. said, pulling the Ruger from its holster and drawing the knife from its sheath on his back. The bodyguard looked at the huge revolver with professional indifference.

"I guess the .357 was too small," he said dryly.

"Didn't leave big enough holes in people," K.T. remarked. Enzo stared at the mercenary for another moment in complete disinterest, then turned to Erica.

"What about you?" the bodyguard inquired. Erica drew her Glock from her purse, and handed the weapon to the Italian. "Alright. Go ahead."

K.T. nodded, and started into the apartment. Erica took one step past Enzo before he grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her against the wall.

"Jesus, what?" Erica exclaimed. Enzo pulled the Ventrue's second Glock, the ojne she had taken from the police at the cemetery from the back of her jeans. As Erica remembered the weapon, she gave the bodyguard a nervous smile. "Um, sorry," the Ventrue said meekly. "I, uh, don't usually carry that one."

"Right," Enzo stated, disbelief evident in his voice. K.T. turned his eyes to the white plaster ceiling, waiting for Enzo to request that the pair leave. After a moment, the bodytguard walked past him, leading the pair through a tiny foyer and into the apartment.

Stefano Giovanni's apartment extended out from the foyer, descending one step into a spacious, hardwood floored living room. Elegant, nineteenth century furniture clustered around a beautiful mahogany coffee table, while an impressive stereo and television system remained tastefully hidden by a large oaken cabinet against the far wall. At the far end of the huge room, a door led into an impressive library, while 

a smaller, obscured doorway led to a kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom on the right. A crystal chandelier depended from the middle of the ceiling, casting a warm light through the room.

As Erica stopped and gawked at the elegant apartment, another man appeared from the library. K.T. turned to the newcomer, and tried to put a genuine smile on his face.

"Stefano," the Gangrel said simply. Dressed in a white suit, Stefano Giovanni was the stereotypical Italian grandfather. His short, neatly brushed silver hair showed the last traces of its original black, framing a slightly round, slightly aged face dominated by a textbook Roman nose. The man's dark eyes watched the mercenary as K.T. took a step forward, but the Italian made no attempt to return the Gangrel's smile under his thick, silver mustache. "It's been a long time."

"What do you want?" Stefano asked simply, his voice formal and brusque. Although it was faint, Erica could easily pick up on the Italian accent in the man's voice. K.T.'s smile faded away instantly, replaced with his typical stern, uncompromising glare.

"Harry's dead," the Gangrel stated bluntly. "He was supposed to be meeting with you tonight. What the hell happened?"

"Harry was supposed to meet with me?" Stefano repeated, surprised. "Maybe someone should have let me know about this meeting, so that I could have been there."

"He said he got in contact with you," K.T. said. He should have expected that his mysterious opponents had cut Harry off before he had even talked to Stefano. "Didn't you speak to him at all last night? On the phone if not in person?"

"No," Stefano answered simply. "What exactly is going on, Corben?"

"I… have some problems with the Black Hand," K.T. answered, the slightest bit hesitant. Stefano arched an eyebrow, and the mercenary could hear Enzo breathe out a low sigh of disbelief. "Harry was going to see if you knew anything about what the Hand has been up to lately, to see wh they would be after me."

"Mister Corben, I might remind you that I stay out of Sabbat affairs as much as I can, unlike some other people I know," Stefano said, taking a few steps across the room to K.T. "Maybe you should do the same."

"If I still had that option, I would," K.T. stated, growing rapidly indignant. "Just about everyone in this city has tried to kill me so far, and two of those assassins are most likely willing to follow me to the ends of the earth. I can't do anything until I find out what the hell I'm involved in!"

"That is a truly touching story, Corben," Stefano said as the two came even closer. "Maybe, if that is the case, you should leave now, before these two assassins show up. I have enough problems without taking on any of yours."

"What's the matter, Stefano?" K.T. asked, quickly growing more and more confrontational. "Stocks and bonds not treating you right?"

"You might have had a chance to get back on my good side, Corben, but it's over now," Stefano hissed, now only a few inches from K.T.'s face. "Look here, animal, if you start any trouble on my turf and drag my family into it, you're going to have the Giovanni to face in addition to your seemingly long list of enemies in this city. Do you understand me?"

K.T. glared down at the slightly shorter Italian, already thinking about giving Stefano a more permanent slash with his claws instead of a knife. The mercenary was about to spit out a caustic retort when he was elbowed aside, and Erica put herself between the two men.

"Please, Mister Giovanni, K.T. is just a bit uptight," the Ventrue stated quickly, trying to prevent an out and out fight between the two vampires. "Please, try to forgive him. He's Gangrel, but try not to hold that against him."

"Who are you?" Stefano asked, turning to the Ventrue.

"Erica Blackwell," the young woman replied, extending her hand. "I happened to meet K.T. last week. He had mentioned that you are very powerful and knowledgeable in the area, but unfortunately, K.T. has been handicapped by his heritage and a considerable lack of interpersonal skills. I humbly ask that you overlook his harsh, irritating attitude in this matter." Erica paused, and put on the sweetest, most innocent face she could muster. "Our lives may rest in your very hands," the Ventrue finished, almost pleading with the Italian. Stefano continued to stare sternly at Erica fort another moment, but then smiled.

"You I'm inclined to help," the Giovanni stated, nearly chuckling at the Ventrue's display. He turned to Enzo and said something in Italian, to which the bodyguard responded with a laugh. "I see, however, that your taste in friends is terrible. May I suggest, Miss Blackwell, that you put this Gangrel back under whatever rock you found him and move in more sociable circles?"

"I've been thinking that myself," Erica agreed with a grin. She glanced over at K.T., who was barely restraining himself from attacking either the Ventrue or the Giovanni, and gave him a smug, arrogant smile. "Sometimes he can just be so unmanageable, but he does have his uses. Mister Giovanni, I'm truly sorry to have to be so crass, but is there any way that you can help us with our problems?"

"I would like to," Stefano started, "but I have very little information about the Hand. As I deal more in business interests and a war of influence, I would be far more prepared to give you a rundown on the local Lasombra, Tzimisce, and Ventrue _antitribu_ in the area. The Black Hand to me is, at best, a secondary concern."

"You… can't help us?" Erica concluded, praying that she was not correct in her assumption.

"Not me directly," Stefano corrected, seeing the almost desperate look in Erica's eyes. "But I can put you in touch with someone who might be able to help. This person fights a war more on the street level, and has most likely seen the Black Hand directly in action. This is not a contact I like to contact, and certainly not someone that I would contact on a whim, so the price may be somewhat steep."

"Who is this contact?" K.T. asked, finally putting himself back in the conversation.

"I'm sorry, was your Gangrel thug speaking?" Stefano inquired, turning to Erica. The Ventrue nearly burst out laughing, both from the comment itself and the furious expression that rose to the mercenary's face, but kept herself under control.

"I believe my associate was a bit concerned with who this contact could be," Erica explained, keeping all but the faintest smile from her face. Stefano nodded. 

"First, We'll negotiate my finder's fee," the Giovanni said. "I would guess that you are a member of the Sabbat, Miss Blackwell?"

"Well, yes," Erica replied, a bit hesitant. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," Stefano replied. "Considering your appearance and behavior, you are most likely either Lasombra or Ventrue _antitribu_. Which means that you could be very useful to me in the future."

"Useful?" Erica repeated. Whatever joy she was getting out of being the star player of this scene started to vanish as she realized that Stefano was pulling her into his service.

"Yes, useful," Stefano said. "You and I both know that your clan, whichever it may be, is most involved in the war of influence against me. All I want is notification on the next three plots you come across within the Sabbat to try and reduce Giovanni influence over our traditional interests in the police, Mafia, and corporate world."

"Three?" Erica repeated. "Mister Giovanni, that is a truly steep price. I might be willing to inform you about one attempt, but three?"

"Yes, three," Stefano replied, not willing to back off of his original offer. He threw a meaningful glance at K.T., almost asking him to jump in and sabotage Erica's business deal, then returned his attention to the young Ventrue. "If you don't want my help, of course, that's perfectly fine by me. I'm certain that you'll be fine without any knowledge at all in your problems with the most feared group of killers in the vampiric world."

"But, Mister Giovanni, if I were to be found giving information about Sabbat plans…" Erica started, worrying about the consequences of the price she would have to pay for the information.

"You'll have the information as soon as this incident is over," K.T. put in, trying once more to enter the conversation. Stefano turned to him with a smile. Erica nearly whirled on the Gangrel, growing rapidly furious. "If she won't turn anything over to you, I will."

"Excellent," Stefano said enthusiastically. Erica kept a wide eyed, indignant glare on the mercenary for a moment, then tried to regain her composure. "Would you like to know the name of your contact?"

"Please," K.T. answered, upset with the Giovanni for giving information at such a steep price. There was no telling if the contact himself would demand even more in payment, and the mercenary was already looking at a fairly difficult job to repay the Italian.

"Patrice Beladeau," Stefano replied. K.T.'s jaw dropped as he heard the name. Erica lost her calm, collected demeanor almost as soon as she had regained it, turning a flabbergasted expression on the Giovanni. Stefano noticed the pair's reactions, and feigned a small measure of surprise. "Oh, I see you've heard of him."

"We… we can't deal with a Setite!" Erica managed to blurt out.

"You deal with Patrice Beladeau?" K.T. added, thoroughly surprised.

"Only when I have to," Stefano answered. "I don't like the snakes any more than you do, but sometimes you have to make a deal with the devil. I don't know why, but he seems to always have an interest in the Black Hand. Maybe he's afraid of them mobilizing against his posses."

"But… he's a Setite!" Erica pointed out again, still stuck on that one fact.

"He's your best shot," Stefano said.

"No deal," Erica stated, finally snapping back to the present. "We are not dealing with a snake."

"Then good luck to you, Miss Blackwell," Stefano said. "I hope you don't get into too much trouble out there."

"I'll see what I can do," K.T. stated flatly, turning and starting to the door. Enzo met him in the foyer, and returned the mercenary's Ruger and knife.

"Nice seeing you again, Corben," the bodyguard said with a grin, still amused with the mercenary's treatment during his brief stay.

"Fuck you, Enzo," K.T. grumbled, shoving his Ruger back into its holster. Without another word, the mercenary stalked out of the apartment. Erica took her guns from Enzo as well, and hurried to catch up with K.T. The mercenary stepped into the elevator, and nearly shut the doors before Erica could squeeze in with him. The pair rode down to the ground floor in silence, Erica not daring to speak to the obviously unhappy Gangrel. K.T. walked out of the elevator as it reahed the ground floor, not stopping until he was out on Broome Street again. Erica caught up with the mercenary outside, and stopped next to him.

"What now?" Erica asked, trying to figure out where to turn next.

"You really enjoyed that, didn't you?" K.T. demanded, turning back to the Ventrue. Erica looked surprised for a moment, but then laughed a little.

"Come on, K.T., I was just trying to get Stefano to part with a little information," Erica explained. "And you were certainly being no help, getting in his face like that. I was just trying to get somewhere other than into a fight. Which is right where you were headed."

Once again, K.T. tried to think up a retort to Erica's statement, but the Ventrue had, in fact, been far more successful dealing with the Giovanni than he had. Finally, the mercenary shook his head in disgust.

"We'd better find a place to stay for the day," K.T. said, looking up at the slowly brightening sky. It was already past four in the morning, and even the streets of Manhattan were relaitvely devoid of traffic. "You have any money?"

"Not enough for a hotel room," Erica answered. "Buying new clothes every night because some idiot keeps shooting me is getting expensive. What about you?"

"I think I have thirty dollars," the mercenary replied. Erica smiled slightly.

"Not really enough for a room," the Ventrue pointed out. "My pack's communal haven isn't too far away. You think anyone's watching it?"

"Probably fewer people than would be watching your apartment building," K.T. answered. "We can try there first."

"Alright," Erica said. She started to walk up towards Broadway, but stopped in her tracks after only a single step. K.T. had started to put a cigarette to his mouth, but froze as he saw the Ventrue.

"Should I ask who's behind us, or should I just take a wild guess and say it's our favorite assassin?" the mercenary inquired. He turned around to see the young, insane killer with a thoroughly surprised and upset look on his face.

"Oh, come on, I was supposed to be sneaking up on you," the assassin complained. "That girl's hearing is not supposed to be that good!"

"Would you stop following me around?" K.T. asked.

"When you're dead, I promise I'll leave you alone," the assassin assured K.T. Then he raised his gun, ready to gun the mercenary down.

K.T. dove quickly to one side, barely avoiding the first blast of the insane killer's shotgun. He turned on Erica as she raised her Glocks to fire, chasing her back to cover with his other shotgun shell, then cast the weapon aside and drew his Skorpion. K.T. came up behind a Honda, taking quick aim and letting two rounds loose from his Ruger, but the killer turned on him quickly and unloaded his machine pistol. K.T. rushed to the end of the car and then turned the corner, bouncing up as the killer's wild burst came to an end and firing again with his Ruger.

"K.T.! Come on!" Erica shouted. The Ventrue smashed through the window of a car and unlocked the door as K.T. and the assassin traded shots, then ducked into the vehicle as the Gangrel rolled over the hood of the car in front of another spray of bullets. Firing over the roof the car, K.T. glanced down quickly to see Erica tearing through the steering column,

"How long will that take you?" the mercenary asked, ducking under a burst of fire.

"I thought you knew how to do this!" Erica replied, looking back up at him. K.T. stared down at her for a second in disbelief, almost forgetting to duck under the next burst of fire.

"Move, then!" K.T. demanded. Erica pushed herself across the seat and pulled both pistols, then popped out on the passenger side and opened up with wild abandon in the general direction of the assassin. K.T. quickly sorted through the mess the Ventrue had made of the steering column and started to hotwire it, listening to Erica finish emptying her guns at the assassin and probably missing every time. Finally, as she ran out of bullets, he twisted two wires together and heard the engine come to life.

"Hurry up!" the Ventrue shouted. "I only have one more magazine!"

"Get in!" K.T. ordered. A second later the Ventrue had jumped into the car and K.T. stamped down on the accelerator, tearing into the center of Broome street as he dropped the car into gear. The assassin continued to rake the rear of the vehicle with gunfire, shattering the rear window and punching holes through the body. "Keep him occupied or something!"

"Give me a second!" Ercia exclaimed, fumbling through her purse for her last magazine. "Just drive!"

"What the hell do you think I'm doing?" K.T. demanded, racing up Broome Street. Erica jammed her last clip into place, and sprayed fire out of the shattered rear window. Finally, the Ventrue turned around, and sank back into her seat.

"I think we lost him," she said with a bit of a smile.

Only fifteen minutes after they had left Broome Street, K.T. pulled his stolen car to the side of Fifth Avenue, just in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. For a moment, the Gangrel simply sat in the driver's seat, then started to push out of the door.

"Why are we stopping here?" Erica inquired, seeing Central Park not so far away.

"No gas," K.T. answered, pausing halfway out of the car. "He must have hit the fuel tank. Of all the cars to steal, we pick the one owned by a guy that keeps it on a quarter of a tank."

"Stop bitching and let's find a place to stay for the day," Erica chided, getting out of the car herself.

"Well, we're not exactly close to your communal haven any more," K.T. pointed out, noticing that the nearest cross street was East Eighty-first Street. "Any bright ideas now?"

"It's going to be light pretty soon," Erica pointed out, noticing the slowly brightening sky. "Maybe we can make Jerry's apartment? If he isn't dead, he might even be there!"

"That's our best option, I guess," K.T. stated. He considered for a moment trying to mug someone for money, but he was far too close to Central Park to take that chance. If he ended up trying to mug a werewolf, he would have far more serious problems than just worrying about sunrise. "I guess we're walking it."

"I guess," Erica said, looking around. "Twenty-fourth Street is a long way off, though."

"Cars around here have alarms," K.T. said, knowing what Erica was thinking. "I don't know how to disarm too many alarms."

"Wonderful," Erica said. "Well, let's get going."

"Let's," K.T. agreed. He started to walk south along Fifth Avenue with a brisk pace, keeping one eye on Central Park across the street and one eye on the rest of his surroundings. At any moment, the mercenary expected werewolves to charge out of the park or one of his two vampire assassins to emerge from the shadows of the tall, pristine buildings of Fifth Avenue. Erica stayed extremely close to the mercenary, p[utting him between her and the park as they made their way south.

Thirty blocks of walking only brought the pair as far as Fifty-sixth Street, but K.T. felt a little bit better as they crossed Fifth Avenue to head west and leave Central Park to the north. The sky was starting to grow even brighter, however; the mercenary was starting to run out of time, and picked up his pace even more. Erica matched him step for step, and even started to pull ahead of the Gangrel as they descended into the Forties. They still needed to cover twenty more blocks south and four or five blocks west. With the sun coming up, K.T. began to wonder if they would have to push their way into an apartment building and simply take refuge in the basement.

It was nearly six o'clock when K.T. finally found himself back in front of Jerry Bonifay's apartment building on Twenty-fourth Street. Erica breathed out a sigh of relief as she pushed her way into the building, and turned a hopeful smile on the mercenary as she hurried to the elevator. K.T. was fairly certain that Jerry was dead, but the Shadow Lords' idea that the Lasombra might not be dead had firmly taken root in Erica's mind. She waited impatiently as the elevator rose to the fifteenth floor. Erica was out of the elevator and down the hall as soon as the doors opened again, and K.T. stepped out of the cab just in time to see the Ventrue nearly break her key in her rush to get into the apartment. The mercenary glanced around the hall once, looking for anything thast might be out of place, then followed his younger companion into Jerry's apartment.

Jerry's apartment looked no different from the way they had left it two nights ago. K.T. scanned the living room for some signs of an assassin, but nothing at all had been disturbed, as far as he could tell. Erica came back out of the bedroom, her hopeful expression now crushed. Slowly the Ventrue walked to the couch, and sank down into the cushions. K.T. made a quick sweep of the apartment, but still found no sign of any other occupants. Finally, left with no place else to go, the mercenary came back to the living room, and looked down at Erica.

"You alright?" K.T. finally asked. It was a stupid question with an obvious answer, but it was all the Gangrel's mind could come up with for the time being.

"He's dead," Erica finally admitted. Her voice was slightly ragged as she spoke. "He really is dead."

"I know," K.T. said. "I'm sorry."

"You know, he was the only one that really liked me," Erica said, looking up. A single bloody streak ran down her cheek as she held back her grief. "Everyone else really didn't care if I lived or died. He was kind of like you, that way."

"What do you mean?" K.T. asked, growing suddenly uneasy with the conversation. Erica smiled a little, and tried to keep herself calm.

"Come on, K.T.," the Ventrue said, fighting back her emotions. "I know you think I'm just about worthless right now. And you still haven't given me up for dead, or I'd be lying on a street in Brooklyn next to Jerry with a phosphorous round in my head. And you're not even my packmate, much less Sabbat."

"Yeah, well, I… need someone to watch my back right now," K.T. faltered. This was not something he needed, especially not now, but he could find no good way out of the deal. Erica stood up, and wiped away another bloody tear from her eye.

Thank you, K.T.," Erica said. She wrapped him up in a tight hug, then kissed him on the cheek. "You really aren't the heartless mercenary you claim to be. Thank you.

She started into the bedroom, leaving K.T. sitting on the couch with a bewildered look on his face.


	3. Intermission

Interlude ****

Interlude

K.T.'s getting kind of pissed at me for constantly raking him with gunfire, so I thought I'd take this opportunity to just thank anyone who's actually keeping up with this story. _Sleight of Hands _is a project five years in the making, the flagship story of a long dreamed up series of stories called _The Mercenary Cycle_, which also claims _Enemies Disguised Enemies_(for any of you that have read that). I have to apologize for the length of time between installments of this story. The "final" draft had actually been completed well before I finished college, but when I looked back on this monstrosity, weighing in at 135 pages and spanning over 84,000 words as it was, I thought it really needed yet another tech edit, to make it flow and to knock out some of the kinks. The new final project is already over a hundred pages long, and I predict about two hundred pages and over 100,000 words before I finish everything up. It's a long story with a long down time between installments, but I'll keep on trying to get the rest of it up and running as soon as possible. For those of you that have never tried a line by line rewrite of this magnitude, well, it's a very long, very painstaking process. Not to mention that I have to do editing on other stories, before Beth and Diane get angry and track me down and kill me.

While I'm here giving K.T. a rest, I'd also like to thank Norm, the incredible, merciless Nevermore, for reading, rereading, and then rereading again. There are four major drafts to this story, all of which he has personally gone through and blasted to pieces in the hopes that I might accomplish something worthwhile with Microsoft Word 6.0. Without him, the story you are now reading would be worth even less than it currently is. Kudos to the Chief(and only) Editor.

So thanks for the time and patience. And now, on with the show…


	4. Sleight of Hands, Part Three

**IX**

The last rays of the sun filtered through the heavy curtains of the apartment, dimly illuminating the gray carpeted efficiency before retreating slowly through the window. What little light pierced the musty darkness of the dwelling revealed an old, moth eaten couch on a badly stained rug that had once been white. The paint still held to the walls, but streaks of gray and black from years of neglect badly tarnished the apartment's interior. The kitchen, little more than an alcove to the left of the front door, remained a black hole in the wall; no light could pierce the inky darkness of that room.

As the last ray of sunlight disappeared from the apartment, the bathroom door on the left of the apartment creaked open, allowing a harsh, yellow shaft of light to burn through the darkness. Slowly Cordoba strode out of his daytime hiding place, his cold gaze sweeping deliberately over the decaying apartment. Satisfied that nothing had been moved, the Panders walked across the living room and into the kitchen, flipping the switch for the overhead, fluorescent bulb.

Cordoba turned first to the battered refrigerator in the kitchen, opening the door and taking out a bottle full of blood from the top shelf. The Panders set the bottle on the grease stained top of the rusty yellow range, then opened the over and removed a large wooden box. Cordoba set the box down next to his bottle of blood, took a long drink of the vitae, and hesitated fort a short moment. Finally, he pried the top off of the box, and began to remove the contents.

He had not used these weapons for some time, but Cordoba remembered each one of them well. Two Glock ten millimeters were first. Then a MAC-10 submachinegun. A sawed off, pump action shotgun. A Molotov cocktail. And finally, three long combat knives, far and away his favorite weapons.

A faint smile came to the Panders'' face as he thought back to the times when he had used his knives more often. Cordoba's sire had once been the leader of the packs that the Panders now led, a brutal man who was more than willing to use Cordoba as a ruthless, efficient enforcer. Many had been the enemies that had fallen under the razor sharp blades that Cordoba wielded, mortal, vampiric, and even the occasional lupine. The memories of the past brought a faint, wistful smile to the Panders' face as he ran a finger along the edge of one of his knives, but a mere glance at the decaying apartment that he was currently inhabiting in Spanish Harlem stole the levity from the fallen pack leader's reverie. Once more he could see with vivid clarity his packs turning on him, directed by that bastard Hector. He could hear Jaime's screams as her own packmates and friends tore her apart with small arms fire. The sting of his betrayal and his last loyal pack member's death nearly drove him into a rage, but the Panders closed his eyes and took a deep breath to control his anger. Blindly lashing out at an empty apartment would do nothing to help him.

Cordoba picked up the largest of his three knives, a wide, serrated weapon with a fifteen inch blade of glittering, razor sharp tempered steel, and gazed at the edge for a long moment. The Panders realized that he needed answers before he could move. Someone had set him up to take a hard fall, but they had failed to finish the job at the Limelight. Someone was out in the city, looking to destroy Cordoba and steal his influence. There had to be some way of finding out who was behind the coup. And the former pack leader knew where he had to start looking.

Cordoba strapped the huge combat knife into a sheath on his back, then reached under the sink and pulled out a large black athletic bag. Inside the bag was an assortment of shotgun shells, magazines, and his weapon of last resort, a snub-nosed .38 revolver. Cordoba quickly gathered his weapons into the bag, then wrapped the Molotov cocktail in a paper bag and hesitantly stuck it into one of the pockets of his black trench coat. Finally, the Panders tucked his second knife into his belt, and hid the third and smallest blade in his left boot. Finally, ready for anything that the streets of Manhattan could throw against him, Cordoba left his apartment and strode out into the whitewashed, starkly lit hallway. The few people standing in the hallway, unsavory characters themselves, quickly moved out of his way as the Panders made his way to the stairs that led to the ground floor. Once he reached the streets, Cordoba turned south, heading for the nearest subway that could take him from the northern end of Manhattan to Twenty-fourth Street. He was going to get some answers, and he was going to start with what was left of Jerry Bonifay's pack.

_______________________________________________________________________

The sun had only been down for twenty minutes, but Erica had already finished a relatively detailed search of Jerry's apartment for any magazines for her Glocks. Even during her mortal days, Erica had been an early riser. That much had not changed since her embrace. Now, the Ventrue sat down on Jerry's bed, trying not to think about her recently killed packmate while she waited for K.T. to rise from the comatose sleep that all vampires entered during the daylight hours.

Erica glanced back to the bedroom door, and wondered once more what she would say to the mercenary when he awoke. She was beginning to think that she had made a fool out of herself in the morning, but she did not know if she should apologize for her actions, pretend they never happened, or try to make K.T. admit any feelings he might have for her. The mercenary had not pushed her away that morning when she had hugged him, but he had also not returned any real show of emotion other than surprise. The Ventrue looked back to the door once more, then tried to push her thoughts out of her mind as she continued a halfhearted search for ammunition. She had only been at it for another few seconds when the bedroom door pushed open and K.T. walked into the room, still more asleep than awake. Erica forced a smile to her face as she saw the mercenary.

"You're not an early riser, that's for sure," the Ventrue remarked with a touch of humor that she hoped would cover up any of her discomfort with facing her companion. For his part, K.T. simply shrugged wearily.

"Not even when I was mortal," K.T. agreed, rubbing at his eyes for a moment. "I hate mornings. Or evenings, as the case may be. Are you looking for something?"

"I was hoping that Jerry had some spare magazines laying around," Erica replied. "I don't have any bullets left for my guns."

"Been a lot of shooting lately," K.T. pointed out. "I'm just about out, too. You know any good gun runners?"

"Well, not really," Erica replied, looking down at the floor. To K.T., the young Ventrue looked almost guilty about not knowing where to find any weapons.

"Well, I have one contact left in Brooklyn, I think," the mercenary said. "A gun runner that the Giovanni deal with on and off. We can get some more ammo, and maybe a machine gun to deal with Heckyll and Jeckyll."

"Heckyll and Jeckyll?" Erica repeated, looking up again.

"The two assassins," K.T. clarified. "You do know who Heckyll and Jeckyll were, right?""Weren't they two crows or something?" Erica inquired. K.T. nodded. "I think I used to watch them as a kid."

"God, I'm old," K.T. muttered, surprising himself with his faint attempt at humor. Erica laughed, a bit nervously, as K.T. put on a bit of a smile. The mercenary tried to think of something to say, to make certain that the conversation moved along, but found himself lapsing into an uncharacteristic awkward moment of silence. Quickly K.T. reminded himself that he needed to keep his mind on the problems at hand and not on the young Ventrue that he had inadvertently picked up almost a week ago. Before the Gangrel could come up with anything to say, Erica spoke up again.

"Listen, uh, K.T., about what I… well, this morning," the Ventrue started hesitantly. "I, um, well, you don't have to take it, well, like…"

"Like what?" K.T. asked as Erica trailed off. Erica simply stared at the mercenary for a moment, a faintly hurt and frightened expression on her face, then she turned quickly to the door.

"We should really be getting out to meet that gun runner," the Ventrue finished hastily, already walking out of the bedroom. K.T. nearly breathed a sigh of relief that the conversation was rapidly coming to a close. Erica was a partner of inconvenience, and the mercenary was painfully aware that he could not allow their relationship to be anything more than that. But instead of leaving the matter alone and considering it closed, the mercenary stunned himself by grabbing Erica's arm before she could leave the room.

"It's not like you to be lost for words," K.T. said, smiling faintly. Part of his mind was already furious with him, demanding to know exactly what he was trying to prove, but the mercenary pushed the admonishing voice out of his head for the time being. "Just say what you need to say. After all, you dropped enough hints about it already."

"Everything I've heard is true," Erica said, looking away from the mercenary. "Gangrel are about as subtle as nuclear weapons."

"Tact isn't in the blood," K.T. explained with a shrug.

"Then tell me how you feel about me," Erica said suddenly, turning back to K.T. "You don't really care that much, do you? You probably just think I'm an extra person to shoot at, right? Just another bullet catcher or something."

"If I thought that way about you, there's no way in hell I would have risked getting shot with a phosphorous round to go drag you back out of the line of fire," K.T. said, before his more rational side could take over and end the conversation. "I don't do that when I'm using someone to catch bullets. You can believe me when I say that I like you."

"My own pack didn't like me," Erica said quietly, trying to pull away. K.T. kept a solid grip on her arm.

"I'm not your pack," the mercenary pointed out. "I'm your friend."

"Is that it? Just a friend?" Erica asked, sounding almost angry. She quickly realized what she had said, and tried to retract the statement. "Sorry," the Ventrue said quietly. "I… I shouldn't have said that."

"You're forgiven," K.T. said simply. He was still astounded, and practically furious, about his present course of action. There was too much going on to forget professionalism and become emotionally involved with a young, inexperienced, and ultimately thoroughly expendable member of the Sabbat. Erica simply looked up at her taller companion, her eyes searching for some hint of what was going on in the Gangrel's mind. After a moment, K.T. met her gaze, and found himself stifling a slight chuckle.

"What?" Erica asked, confused.

"Nothing," K.T. answered. In the middle of the biggest disaster of his unlife, the mercenary found himself getting involved with a woman that he had restrained himself from shooting with only the greatest effort over the last week. The absurdity of the situation made him want to burst out laughing, but he managed to keep all but another chuckle from escaping.

"I'm glad to see you find this so amusing," Erica said angrily, certain that her emotional display was the source of her companion's mirth. She turned and tried to pull away once more, this time pulling her arm free. K.T. caught her again quickly, again overriding his rational side's demand that he remain completely professional.

"You want to know why I was laughing?" K.T. asked, unable to wipe a faint smirk from his face.

"No, just forget it," Erica retorted, trying to pull her arm free. Hurt and embarrassed, the Ventrue glared back at the Gangrel when he refused to release her. "Just let go of me and we can get moving."

K.T. said nothing, but drew the Ventrue into him and kissed her. It was not a particularly long or passionate kiss by any standard, but to K.T. it was both enough to show that he cared for the girl and far more than half of him wanted to offer. The situation with Erica was spinning out of control even faster than his aborted job had, but a part of K.T. no longer cared. After a moment, K.T. relinquished his grip on Erica, and she took a step back in shock.

"Wha… what was that for?" she asked, stunned by the show of emotion from the Gangrel.

"Because," K.T. said with a shrug and a helpless shake of his head. He turned to the door, stuffing his hands into his pockets, but Erica caught him by the arm and spun him around. To the Ventrue's wide eyed, surprised stare, the mercenary shrugged again. "I'm a horrible romantic. That's why I thought it was funny."

"K.T., I…" Erica started. She quickly found herself speechless.

"Don't hassle it," K.T. said, smiling slightly. Erica wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace and kissed him again, nearly knocking the mercenary backward with the force of her emotions. When they finally separated, the Ventrue's eyes were lit with joy.

"Don't hassle it?" Erica finally repeated, her voice nearly cracking.

"Just something a Caitiff friend of mine used to say," K.T. answered with a faint laugh. Furious with himself for such a breakdown in his professional demeanor, the mercenary was nonetheless enjoying every minute of the bizarre situation. It had been far too long since he had let anyone get this close to him, but there was a stern warning from the back of his head that he was going to pay dearly for such a lapse in the near future. For the moment, however, that voice was drowned out. "Told you I was a horrible romantic."

Erica opened her mouth to say something more, but she was cut off by the door to Jerry's apartment being slammed open. K.T. whirled to the bedroom door, pushing Erica behind him, and dropped one hand to his belt. In the instant that his hand closed around the empty space where his Ruger usually hung, the Gangrel remembered that his gun and his duster were both still where he had slept in the living room. After a brief instant, K.T. suddenly realized that the intruder was no assassin, but someone that was simply extremely unhappy.

"What in God's name were you thinking?" the intruder demanded in an astonishingly familiar voice. K.T. glanced back to Erica, but the young Ventrue was too stunned by the sound of the man in the living room to react. "I said one person! One person! Not an entire fucking pack!"

"Mister Bonifay, I would suggest that you remain calm," a second man stated, his voice refined and holding the tinge of a Scottish accent. "We have the situation well under control. The mercenary will be dealt with promptly, as well as your former packmate. And I would remind you to respect your elders."

"Under control?" Jerry repeated, fighting to keep his anger in check. "I had things under control. Calvin was the only person that got to read anything in that communiqué, and I thought I had made it perfectly clear that he was the only one you needed to kill. But now, this insane retard you let out of his cage has killed an entire pack, two bishops, three templars, and can't seem to figure out how to deal with some unknown wild card mercenary Gangrel that Stokes got a hold of before you could finish him off! If I were to describe this situation, under control is hardly the terminology I would choose! Put Graime back on a leash before he gets us into any more trouble!"

"Hey, if he would stand still I could kill him," K.T. heard a third person comment. The voice was easily recognizable as the assassin that had been chasing him since K.T. had found Stokes' remains in Brooklyn, meaning that there were at least three people on the other side of the bedroom door. Slowly the mercenary edged up to the door, peeking through the narrow space between the door and the wall. He could see Jerry on the right corner of his vision, and a man in his fifties that the mercenary thought he should recognize. The man was somewhat short, probably no more than five foot eight, with graying black hair and hazel eyes set in a distinguished, clean shaven face. His hand tailored suit only added to his powerful appearance. On the left corner of K.T.'s vision was an arm clad in a leather jacket, most likely the assassin that was speaking. "Every time I meet up with him, he keeps running away or something. At least most of the others didn't run away."

"Let's think about this, Graime, you're trying to kill him," Jerry pointed out angrily, keeping his voice even. The Lasombra strode across the room to the leather jacket. When he reached the assassin, he stopped and stabbed at his cohort with his finger as he spoke again. "Maybe, if you'd go up on a rooftop and shoot him the way you did me, but used a real phosphorous round, he would have been dead by now! Did you ever think of that, numbnuts?"

"Sometimes I just don't get that chance," Graime observed nonchalantly.

"Mister Bonifay, once again I would advise you to remain calm," the distinguished man said, crossing his arms across his chest. "I assure you that these loose ends will be taken care of in a timely manner."

"You're damn right they will be," Jerry huffed, turning angrily on his companion. "Hassan is going to finish the job that this maniac botched so royally."

"That is another matter that I wish to speak with-" the distinguished man started. He stopped abruptly, his eyes going quickly to one corner of the couch in the living room. K.T. followed his line of sight, and noticed his duster and Ruger nearly obscured by the pillow on the couch. 

"Shit," the mercenary breathed, wishing that he had remembered to bring his possessions into the bedroom with him. Although even he had barely heard his remark, the man snapped his eyes from the couch to the bedroom door. For an instant, K.T. locked gazes with the stranger, stunned that he had even known where to look for the mercenary with such certainty.

"Don't just stand there!" Jerry suddenly shouted, breaking K.T.'s focus on the distinguished man. The mercenary glanced around quickly, searching for another way out of the bedroom. "Get them!"

K.T. quickly backed up from the door, but could not get out of the way before someone slammed through the barrier. Clipped in the shoulder by the door as it broke off of its hinges and crashed into the corner, K.T. stumbled and spun quickly to face the Arabic assassin that had nearly killed him the night before, scimitar already sweeping forward in a backhanded slash. K.T. stumbled and ducked, then rolled out of the way as the Assamite's scimitar bit into the floor through the strands of the mercenary's ponytail. K.T. leapt back to his feet and drew the knife that he still had on his belt, barely in time to parry a lightning strike from the assassin at neck height.

K.T. managed to block away two more strikes from the assassin, but the Assamite's blinding speed and simple mastery of his weapon was quickly making it obvious that the mercenary stood little chance against his deadly foe. Erica raised her Glock to fire at the assassin, but remembered that she had no bullets even as the Assamite ducked and spun out of the way of the nonexistent shot. Throwing her weapon aside, Erica began to rush the assassin as K.T. tried to sneak in a quick knife strike of his own, but she was thrown back by a shotgun blast as Graime entered the room with a theatrical flourish.

In the handful of seconds that it had taken for Graime and the Assamite that could only be Hassan to enter the room, K.T. could easily tell that the fight was lost. Desperately the mercenary searched for a way out of the bedroom, but the only exit other than the door was the window behind Erica on the far side of the room. K.T. feinted right and then spun left, using every ounce of speed that he could muster to get past Hassan and his deadly, glittering blade. The Assamite's scimitar scored a deep cut through the mercenary's back, but K.T. managed to keep on his feet and sprinted for the window, charging through Erica's staggering form. The Ventrue seemed to realize the mercenary's plan and allowed herself to be swept along, and the pair crashed through their last barrier to relative safety.

Of course, as soon as he dove through the window the Gangrel remembered that Jerry lived on the fifteenth floor.

Erica's scream lasted for only a second before the two vampires slammed into the roof of a parked car, crushing the top under the force of the impact. K.T. bounced hard off of his left side and fell from the vehicle, hitting the pavement face first in a shower of exploding glass. The Gangrel was dazed for only a moment, but as his head cleared waves of agony shot through his body from the multitude of broken bones and severe internal bleeding. Trying to force the pain from his mind, the mercenary forced his blood to what he could only figure were the worst of injuries, trying to heal himself enough to escape the street before Hassan or Graime could follow him to the ground.

It took far longer than he would have liked, but K.T. was finally up and on the move, pushing his way past a young man that had stopped to aid the wounded Gangrel. The mercenary stumbled around the car to find Erica pushing herself off of the ground, blood dripping from her lips as she also tried to mend the extreme damage she had taken. One leg was still twisted awkwardly beneath the Ventrue, but as K.T. lifted her from the pavement he could see Erica's eyes begin to regain focus.

"Come on, get on your feet." K.T. ordered, roughly hauling her into a standing position. Erica's leg buckled for a moment, but as the mercenary steadied his companion he could see the limb repairing itself enough to be of use to its owner. Erica turned to K.T., pain still written across her features, but the mercenary paid her little mind as he forced the two of them into a stumbling run up Twenty-fourth Street toward the Garment District. Erica staggered and nearly fell, but K.T. kept the two moving for another block before he could no longer support the Ventrue's weight. Finally, Erica's legs gave out and she fell to her knees, her arms wrapped around her chest in pain.

"Come on, we have to keep moving," K.T. said urgently, turning and watching the street behind him. Through the curious bystanders and shocked witnesses, the mercenary thought he caught a glimpse of steel gleaming in the street lights and a dark cloak swirl across a group of onlookers. 

"I can't," Erica gasped, fighting off fresh waves of pain from her grievous injuries. "I can't even heal myself any more."

"Come on, just a few more blocks," K.T. pressed, glancing once more behind him. Another flash of steel, lasting only the merest fraction of a second, caught his eye a few yards down the street. While K.T. was certain that Hassan would catch up to them in a matter of moments whether they continued to flee or not, he was not willing to just give up and die. Quickly the mercenary dragged his companion back to her feet, eliciting a cry of pain from the Ventrue. "If we stay here, we die," the Gangrel warned. "We have to keep moving."

Erica tried to stumble forward with the mercenary, but faltered after only a few steps. She looked up to K.T., ready to say something, but her attention suddenly focused on something behind him. K.T. turned, ready to face Hassan bare handed, but instead of the Assamite the mercenary found a familiar black limousine pulling to the curb. As it rolled to a halt, the rear door opened and Clairvius stepped out, a huge combat shotgun barely concealed beneath the knee length, black overcoat that he wore. The Setite threw a meaningful look down the street, then turned a broad, perfect smile on the two badly wounded vampires. Although his eyes were still shielded by his trademark mirror shades, K.T. could practically feel the predatory gaze in Clairvius' eyes.

"Ah, Mister Corben," the Setite remarked, as though he found it surprising that his limousine had pulled up along the same street that the mercenary presently occupied. "You and your lady friend look terrible. A mutual friend named Stefano said you might be wanting our 'elp."

"Do I have a choice?" K.T. asked, glancing back up the street. Where he had seen brief glimpses of the assassin before, Hassan had now vanished completely from view or given up the chase in light of the Setites' interference. Given the intensity and highly lethal skill Hassan had shown only moments before, the mercenary hated to gamble that he had indeed left the area.

"We always give a choice," Clairvius replied, feigning surprise that the Gangrel could even ask such a question. Then he grew a bit more serious. "But I 'ighly suggest that you accept our 'elp right now. While 'assan 'as disappeared for now, dere is no telling when de Assamite may return."

K.T. hesitated for a long moment, glaring at the Setite in frustration. More and more the Gangrel felt as though he was being set up by Clairvius and his master, Patrice. But at the present moment, there was no other option than to accept Clairvius' "hospitality". Dealing with Setites was something that the mercenary had decided long ago never to try, but at the present it was a marginally better option than decapitation at the hands of a scimitar wielding assassin.

"Alright," K.T. relented, finally turning to the limousine.

"I t'ought you might see t'ings our way," Clairvius said with a satisfied smile. He stepped aside and gestured to the rear door. K.T. slowly helped Erica to her feet, and the two slid into the darkness in the back of the limousine. Clairvius joined them quickly, slipping inside and blocking out what little light entered the vehicle as he shut the door. The limo pulled away from the curb, and for almost a block the occupants rode in silence and darkness. Erica slumped against K.T.'s shoulder as the vehicle picked up a little bit of speed, too exhausted and wounded to argue against getting help from the primary enemies of New York's Sabbat.

A match flared to life opposite the pair, finally casting an almost menacing light on Patrice Beladeau as he lit a cigar. The elder Setite shook the match out, but a dim light now filtered through the limousine, revealing the two Followers of Set facing the two wounded fugitives.

"Mister Corben," Patrice said, exhaling a thick cloud of cigar smoke. "De bot' of you look like 'ell. What 'ave you gotten yourselves into dis time?"

"You know me, life of the party," K.T. said. Patrice allowed himself the faintest display of humor. "Some more of my admirers caught up with us."

"So I see," the elder Setite remarked with a faint smirk. He took another drag from his cigar. "If you 'ad accepted out 'elp earlier, Mister Corben, we could 'ave avoided dis 'ole situation. Now do you see why you need me?"

"No," K.T. replied. "Why do I need you?"

"Mister Corben, I might 'ave information dat you would find useful," Patrice said, his smirk growing ever so slightly.

"Does this mean you're going to tell me what you know?" K.T. asked.

"Does dis mean you're willing to work wit' us?" the elder Setite inquired in return.

"Yes, we are," Erica put in, straightening up despite the pain of her injuries. Patrice turned a fatherly smile on the young Ventrue as he heard her answer, an expression that K.T. found thoroughly unsettling.

"Excellent," the elder Setite said. K.T. glanced over at Erica, but the young Ventrue's eyes remained locked on the Jamaican in a grim stare. "I would 'ave expected your Gangrel friend to come to 'is senses first, Miss Blackwell, but you 'ave made an excellent decision."

"This isn't a permanent deal," Erica pointed out coldly. "This lasts only as long as Jerry remains alive."

"Of course," Patrice said, feigning respect for the Ventrue's convictions. All K.T. could see in the Jamaican's expression was an eagerness to pull Erica into his schemes through her thirst for vengeance. "Betrayal seldom sits well in de Sabbat, and even we do not appreciate a traitor," Patrice continued. "We will 'elp you all we can to bring your former ally to justice."

"Then why don't you start by not holding back on me," K.T. put in, regaining the Setite's attention. "What do you know about the Hand?"

Patrice took another long drag on his cigar, and regarded the mercenary for a long moment.

"Dey are an ancient and powerful sect, dat much we 'ave discovered," Patrice began. "Dey are older dan de Sabbat, indeed older dan de Camarilla. Some 'ave whispered dat it is composed of de oldest of vampires, those 'o were embraced in de First City."

"Bullshit," Erica countered. "The Sabbat made up the Black Hand after the Anarch Revolt, to fight the Camarilla."

"Dat is what dey would 'ave you believe," Patrice informed the young Ventrue. "Undead 'o 'ave been alive for t'ousands of years could easily trick deir distant progeny. De Ancients 'ave powers undreamed of by ones so young as us."

"So we're fighting a bunch of thousand year old vampires," K.T. concluded, extremely skeptical. Jerry might have been older than he let on, but the Lasombra was certainly nowhere near elder status. Even the Assamite Hassan, with his amazing skill and mastery of the combat disciplines, could not have been over five or six hundred years old. 

"In a manner of speaking," Patrice confirmed. "But we do not know much more dan dat. You must discover deir pawns, and discredit or destroy dem. If you can break deir power 'ere, dey may 'ave no choice but to leave you alive."

"So you have nothing of use to me," K.T. decided. 

"On de contrary," Patrice contested. "We 'ave de resources you lack. We 'ave weapons, safe 'ouses, and ghouls to protect you during de daylight 'ours. And we know the Sabbat in dis town. When you 'ave discovered de t'reats to your safety, we can move against dem, relieving de pressure on you. And," Patrice continued as Clairvius opened a small refrigerator set against the side of the limo, "we 'ave de blood you need to 'eal your wounds."

Clairvius took a bottle of blood from the refrigerator, and held it across one arm for K.T. to examine like a bottle of fine wine. The Gangrel stared at the bottle for ma long moment, then looked up to the younger Setite's mirror shades.

"My gift to you," Clairvius said, a wide grin on his face. K.T. folded his arms across his chest and turned away, trying to fight off the terrible Hunger that he faced in the presence of the blood and regain his composure. The mercenary had heard far too many stories of the unwary, mortal and vampire alike, that had been tricked into blood bonds to sadistic, smiling Followers of Set like Clairvius and Patrice. Erica shifted slightly next to the Gangrel, desperately trying to keep from lunging past the mercenary in an attempt to get the blood. Clairvius continued to smile at the pair, still holding the bottle out to the pair. "You can trust me," the Setite prompted, sounding amused with the situation. "De blood is not mine. There is not chance of you becoming addicted if you drink it."

"Drink it," Patrice offered. "You will need de blood to 'eal. Dere is no telling when 'assan will return to finish de job."

"Hassan is the Assamite," K.T. said, making certain that he had his facts straight.

"Yes, 'e is," Patrice confirmed. "A truly deadly and powerful Assamite, one 'o is called upon to deal wit' de enemies of de 'and. 'is power within New York City is considerable. Wit'out our 'elp, 'e will 'unt you down in a matter of nights. Now drink de blood, or your fight against 'im will be even quicker than you anticipate."

K.T. hesitated for another moment, but his Hunger and the desperation of his situation pushed him over the edge. Finally, the mercenary took the bottle, and forced himself through sheer force of will to drink only half of the blood. He handed the bottle over to Erica then, who eagerly grabbed the blood and poured the remainder down her throats. Patrice and Clairvius waited patiently, sinister smiles creeping across their faces. Finally, as Erica dropped the empty bottle on the floor, Patrice leaned back in his seat and regarded the pair once more.

"As I 'ave already mentioned, de Black 'and is older dan you can imagine," the elder Setite explained. "Dey 'ave manipulated vampires for millenia. We know very little about dis sect, but dey will stop at not'ing to eliminate dose dey feel could expose dem to de world. Which brings us to de two of you. Two people dat know more dan dey should. Wit' our 'elp, you can find evidence to bring de leaders of de 'and out into de open, and we can 'elp you dispose of dem. Somet'ing which will 'elp you, Miss Blackwell, regain your place wit'in de Sabbat, and most likely great recognition in de eyes of your elders. Few Sabbat would 'ave done so much for deir sect."

K.T. glanced over to Erica, but the young Ventrue was still fixed on the two Setites and their words. She was already convinced that her alliance with the Setites would be a necessary evil, one that she could explain to her elders as a distasteful act that was needed to bring Jerry to justice and expose a terrible threat to the Sabbat from the Black Hand. K.T. could not argue against the fact that he needed the Setites, at least for the moment, but he was far less optimistic about the overall outcome of the situation.

"Do you have any useful information on the Black Hand?" K.T. asked, resigning himself to his alliance with the Setites.

"We know 'assan, as we said," Patrice replied. "And we know de oder assassin, Jason Graime. Bot' are dangerous, dough you will 'ave a far more difficult time against de Assamite. Jerry Bonifay is, evidently, a t'ird member of de group dat influences New York City."

"There's a fourth," K.T. added. "An older man, distinguished looking, black hair starting to gray. He had a bit of a Scottish accent, I think. And he wore glasses."

Patrice smiled slightly as he heard the description, but shook his head in reply to the question.

"We do not know dis man," the Setite replied. "But we will look into 'is identity, just as you also must."

"If you don't know him, why ar4e you smiling?" K.T. asked, already suspicious of the alliance and the Setites' knowledge of his enemies.

"Because, Mister Corben, you may 'ave found de man wit' de true power in New York City," Patrice replied. "If you uncover dis man's identity, we could break de power of de 'and, and free you from deir machinations."

"I feel really safe now," K.T. grumbled. Clairvius chuckled slightly.

"Mister Corben, it is not us you should be concerned wit'," the Setite enforcer pointed out as he grinned broadly across the limousine. "'assan could kill de bot' of us at once. Only wit' allies can you 'ope to escape dis city alive. And you will need to replace de weapons you 'ave lost. Maybe you need anoder big gun to replace de one you 'ave lost?"

"That would be nice," K.T. answered. Clairvius waited for another second, expecting a shopping list, but the mercenary kept his mouth shut.

"Only de Ruger?" the Setite finally prompted. K.T. nodded.

"I only have one pair of hands, and machineguns are a touch obvious," the Gangrel pointed out in a cool, formal tone.

"What else do you have?" Erica asked suddenly, finally rejoining the conversation. Clairvius turned to the Ventrue, his faintly surprised expression fading instantly into a broad, perfect smile.

"For you, anyt'ing you could possibly want," the enforcer replied. "We 'ave a large stockpile on de East Side. If you would care to join us?"

"I… K.T., it wouldn't hurt to look, would it?" Erica asked, turning to the mercenary. K.T. hesitated, knowing too well that the Ventrue was turning into the Setites' perfect mark. Her thirst for vengeance coupled with her steadfast desire to save the Sabbat, as well as her naïve confidence in believing that she could use the Setites without being tainted in return, made her an all too willing target for the Snakes' corruption. Unfortunately, K.T. also knew that he had no choice but to work with the Setites for the time being, and could only hope that his young companion would realize the trap being set for her before she walked into it.

"Alright," the mercenary relented. Patrice gave the pair a fatherly smile, one that belied the treachery in his heart. He turned and tapped on the glass partition to gain his chauffeur's attention.

"Driver," the older Setite instructed, still grinning as he gave his chauffeur the new directions. "To de docks."

_________________________________________________________________

The police activity outside the building was not a good omen for his search.

Fifteen floors up on the apartment building, a paint blackened window had been shattered, its glass pane now nothing more than shards on the concrete sidewalk. Along the curb, a black Mercedes had been reduced to scrap metal, its roof caved in to the seats and its windows exploded. A large crowd of bystanders flooded Twenty-fourth Street, barely controlled by the police as they tried to get a glimpse of what had happened. Three cruisers blocked off the street in front of the apartment building, while detectives tried to piece together a fanciful story of a man with long blond hair and a young woman that jumped from the shattered window, slammed into the Mercedes, then got up and ran away, albeit in great pain.

Cordoba did not need to ask which apartment had been the scene of the incident on the fifteenth floor. The Panders had come to the building to find Jerry Bonifay, but apparently someone else had beaten him to the Lasombra. The descriptions of the two escapees from the apartment matched Jerry's young Ventrue packmate and the mysterious Gangrel that had come into the city, but as he listened to eyewitness reports, he did not hear one word about Bonifay, nor did anyone mention a third party that might have attacked the group. As Cordoba reached the double glass doors of the apartment building, he wondered for a moment if Bonifay, Blackwell, and their Gangrel companion had ended up turning on each other, or if the Black Hand itself had finally decided to put an end to the rumors and infighting. The Panders started to push through the doors of the building, resolving himself to a quick search of Bonifay's apartment, but a strong hand on his shoulder brought him to a halt.

"Where are you going?" a short, powerfully built Italian beat cop demanded as his dark eyes leveled a cold glare on Cordoba. Cordoba smiled slightly, but the police officer only deepened his scowl in reply.

"I'm going up to see my girlfriend," the Panders answered, subtly applying a dose of his discipline of presence on the surly officer.

"What's her name?" the cop asked, seemingly unaffected by the vampiric power. "What floor is she on?"

"Lisa Monroe, on the fourteenth floor," Cordoba answered, still trying to cut through the police officer's mental resistance with his presence. The officer glared at him for a long moment, still glaring at the taller vampire. "Um, can I go up and see her?"

"Go," the officer finally said, sounding more irritated than he had at the beginning of the conversation.

"Thanks," Cordoba said, smiling at the officer. "By the way, what happened outside?"

"Jumper," the officer replied shortly. "Get moving."

Cordoba nodded and turned to the elevators, pushing away a vague sense of unease. There was something about the cop that the Panders did not like, something that went beyond his slight resistance to the vampiric discipline of presence. Putting his thoughts on the officer aside, Cordoba rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, then walked up the last flight of stairs to his destination.

Jerry Bonifay's apartment was easily distinguished from the other rooms on the fifteenth floor by the two police officers standing in front of the door. As Cordoba stepped into the hallway from the staircase, the two officers immediately glanced over to him. One dropped his hand slightly to the gun holstered on his hip, but made no further threatening moves. The other simply kept a wary eye on the vampire as he approached. As Cordoba neared the two officers, they tensed slightly, ready for any kind of problems.

"Lieutenant Barreos, Fourteenth Precinct," Cordoba lied, taking a stolen badge from his pocket and flashing it just long enough for the two officers to identify the detective's shield. Once more, Cordoba began to apply his presence, making the guards more likely to believe any story he manufactured. "I'm here to take a look around in the apartment."

"Fourteenth Precinct?" one of the two officers repeated, surprised. "Um, lieutenant, the Seventeenth is handling this investigation."

"I know, but I've been tracking Bonifay in the Garment District for over six months," Cordoba explained. "We've suspected him on drug trafficking for some time, but we were hoping that he could lead us to someone higher up on the food chain, so to speak."

"Um, yeah, but if you don't have any clearance-" the second officer started.

"I would think that my being a detective in the NYPD would be enough of a clearance," Cordoba said, feigning irritation as he leaned in slightly on the speaker. "What happened to the _Fraternal_ Order of Police?"

"Look, we'd love to help, but-" the first officer began.

"Then help me out," Cordoba cut in again, returning his attention to what seemed to be the senior of the two officers. "Look, I'm not going to take anything, and from what it looks like, forensics already went over this place with a fine toothed comb. What could it really hurt to let me take a look around? Just stay out here, and keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

"But we really-" the second officer tried again.

"Listen, I'm taking a look around, because I don't want to lose this collar," Cordoba said, now playing the part of an angry cop. "If you make me miss this opportunity, I swear to God I'll make you regret this day for the rest of your life. Got it?"

"Got it," the officer repeated meekly, thoroughly overwhelmed by the Panders' natural powers of intimidation augmented by his presence. Cordoba glared at the young officer for a moment, then straightened up and smiled at the pair.

"I won't be a minute," he said, strolling past the sentries. "By the way, can one of you run and get me a cup of coffee? It's been a long night so far, and it's not even half over."

"Uh, sure," the first officer said, watching him pass. Cordoba walked inside the apartment, then half closed the door behind him.

The living room had remained untouched, more or less, from the struggle that had taken place only hours before. From what Cordoba could deduce in a quick examination of the room, nothing more than a conversation could have taken place there. However, the duster and the Ruger that the Gangrel had worn were piled neatly on a chair in the corner of the room. Whatever had happened, must have happened in a hurry. Cordoba doubted that the Gangrel would have simply forgotten his hand cannon. The Panders checked through the coat's pockets briefly, but nothing more than five empty speed loaders could be found in the garment. Finally, Cordoba dropped the duster back onto the seat and walked into the bedroom, noting a crack in the door where someone had evidently tried to barrel through the obstruction.

The bedroom had, from the looks of it, been the place where the majority of the struggle had taken place. A few drops of blood spattered the carpet near a large gouge in the floor, while a few shell casings, still marked with chalk, littered the doorway. The bedroom window, as he could see from the ground below, had been shattered outward. The Panders took the scene in for a moment, wondering what exactly had happened in the apartment. Without Bonifay, or at least one of his pack, Cordoba could not find any answers to his sudden loss of his packs. Graime had disappeared, and now his last sources of information were nowhere to be found, if they were alive at all. Slowly Cordoba walked to the dresser that stood next to the bed, and started to look through the drawers. If nothing else, maybe the Panders could find some kind of clue as to what was going on in Manhattan.

The sound of someone entering the room stopped Cordoba abruptly as he began to search through the top drawer. The Panders turned quickly, but found only the police officer that had been at the main doors in the lobby standing just inside the room.

"There is no Lisa Monroe," the officer informed Cordoba. "Maybe you'd like to explain to me what you're doing up here, 'lieutenant'."

"Oh, well, I was just taking a quick look around," Cordoba replied nonchalantly, his hand dropping ever so slightly to the knife he had tucked into his belt. He kept his mood friendly as he locked eyes with the policeman. "But it looks like you guys did your jobs here very well. Nothing overlooked. So I'll see you around."

"You won't be going anywhere until you answer a few questions," the officer informed the Panders. Cordoba kept from rolling his eyes in disgust; the cop had no idea who he was trying to boss around. "Maybe you can fill us in on what's been going on here, as well as what happened a couple of nights ago in a graveyard in Queens."

"Queens?" Cordoba echoed, a bit surprised. The Panders made a mental note to check on any contacts that Bonifay might have in Queens, but then returned to the present situation. His hand closed around the hilt of the knife in his belt. "Nope. Sorry. I don't go to Queens."

The officer might have wanted to say something more, but Cordoba had long since grown tired with the conversation. In a single, fluid move borne of celerity and years of practice, the Panders whipped the knife from his belt and hurled it across the room at the police officer, the blade flying unerringly towards the heart of the cop. Had the cop been a normal human, he would have died instantly.

But the cop was not a cop by the time the blade reached its target. Instead, the knife sank into the lower chest of a nine foot tall monstrosity with mottled black and brown fur, snarling through its huge jaws as it bared monstrous fangs. The werewolf looked down as the knife sank into its flesh, but it did not so much as wince as it casually plucked the blade and tossed the weapon aside.

"Oh, shit," Cordoba breathed, backing up a step. The werewolf tensed, preparing to strike, but the Panders held his position for a long moment. Without any weapons made of silver, Cordoba knew he would stand no chance against the enraged Lupine, and that escape was his only option. Cordoba sprang as the werewolf pounced, but instead of meeting the creature's charge, the Panders ducked under a vicious claw strike and sprinted for the apartment door. He found the two police sentries just entering the living room as he bounced up the single step to the door, and barreled through the two men before they could respond to his sudden presence. Cordoba raced out into the hallway and made it halfway to the elevator before he glanced back over his shoulder, banking on the assumption that the werewolf would not reveal its war form to the two normal police officers. The two sentries and the werewolf were at the door, all three now in human form but raising their guns in preparation to fire. Cordoba dodged into the elevator a heartbeat before bullets ripped through the hallway.

The elevator took far too long for the Panders' liking to reach the ground floor, but Cordoba finally stepped out into the lobby and briskly pushed his way through the glass doors. The police on the street had another slightly panicked crowd to deal with; they had heard the shots inside the building, and were now scrambling for cover while still trying to see the events unfold. Cordoba pushed his way quickly past the police and the nervous bystanders, not slowing his rapid pace until he had gone almost six blocks uptown from Bonifay's apartment building.

"Fuck!" the Panders shouted, kicking at the ground as he looked back down the street. He had hoped to find something, anything, in the apartment that would aid in his quest to regain his packs, but all he had done was put himself on the bad side of a Glass Walker lupine and earn the enmity of the Seventeenth Precinct. Finally, without any other recourse, the Panders turned to continue north, ready to return to Spanish Harlem to figure out a new angle to his problems. Before he could start up the street to the nearest subway station, Cordoba found a tall, painfully thin man in his way, a huge smile spread across his narrow face.

"Why, Mister Cordoba!" the man exclaimed happily. "Fancy meeting you in this neck of the woods!"

"Who the fuck are you?" Cordoba demanded, his hands already dropping to his weapons. The stranger held up his hands quickly, his broad smile still in place.

"Just a guy named Brian," the man replied. "And, if you refrain from shooting me, maybe I can help you with your little problems."

___________________________________________________________________

It was almost one in the morning when Patrice's limousine pulled into a run down, dimly lit warehouse on the waterfront of South Brooklyn. As the vehicle came to a stop, a man hurried up to the vehicle and pulled the door open, allowing Patrice and Clairvius to step out of the limo and appraise the operation. K.T. looked over to Erica as the young Ventrue hesitated, looking out through the partially open door. Finally, she pulled herself out of the limo, still feeling some of the last effects of the injuries she had sustained in the fall. K.T. followed suit after another second, and stepped out of the vehicle and into a large drug factory. Drums of ether were stacked in one corner of the building, while lab technicians worked to prepare a bewildering assortment of drugs for sale on the streets of New York. In all, there had to be millions of dollars' worth of narcotics in the warehouse in some phase of production. As Patrice noticed K.T.'s slightly surprised expression, he smiled faintly.

"I see dat you can appreciate my talent for efficiency and scale," the older Setite remarked, allowing himself a moment of conceit.

"This is one hell of an operation," the Gangrel admitted, surprised that the Setites could have gotten away with such a large base of operations in the Sabbat's back yard. Although Brooklyn was, for the most part, thought of as a containment zone for the Setites, Camarilla remnants, and Giovanni, packs from the other four boroughs often kept a close eye on the dealings of their enemies, and raided Brooklyn frequently to keep such massive endeavors from succeeding.

"I take pride in my business," Patrice said, his pride evident in his voice. "But now, follow me. We will outfit you appropriately."

Patrice turned and started through the drug factory, leading the two fugitives into another section of the warehouse. Clairvius stepped ahead of his elder and opened a sheet metal door, revealing a new storage area filled with weapons. K.T. simply stopped and stared into the vast arsenal that the Setites maintained, holding back his disbelief. Almost any type of firearm that the mercenary could imagine was present, from revolvers and double barreled, breech loading shotguns to assault rifles and even the occasional rocket launcher. Erica stopped next to the mercenary, her mouth dropping open as she gawked at the cache. Clairvius noted the pair's expressions, and smiled as he came back to the two awestruck vampires.

"As I said," Clairvius started, taking Erica's hand gently, "we 'ave somet'ing for your traitor friend in 'ere."

"In Caine's name," Erica simply breathed, taking a step forward as the younger Setite led her closer to the guns. "What… what can I take?"

"Anyt'ing," Clairvius replied with a smile. "You may 'ave whatever you t'ink you will need."

Erica nodded out an understanding of the Setite's words, but she was already trying to decide what weapons she wanted as she started away from Clairvius and disappeared through the stockpile. The younger Setite watched her go for a moment, then made his way to one corner of the room as Patrice and K.T. remained near the door. Finally, the mercenary turned to the elder.

"In order to do this, I'm going to need more than just guns," K.T. stated, finally recovering from his astonishment with the Setites' arsenal.

"Of course," Patrice agreed with a nod and his somehow fatherly smile. "I will 'ave a safe'ouse made ready for de two of you for de day."

"I need information," K.T. pointed out, his voice growing slightly stern. "You have the communiqué from Jerry's pack. I need to know what it said."

"I am afraid dat is impossible," Patrice said after a moment's hesitation. "I 'ad given it to a trusted ghoul to deliver 'ere, but it would appear dat someone else found 'im first. De man's body was taken from de canal at sundown. De communiqué 'as been lost to us."

K.T. simply stared at the Setite for a long moment, unsure of Patrice's honesty. The Gangrel could see no apparent gain from withholding the letter, but K.T. had grown far too wary of the Setites and their motives to simply take Patrice's word at face value.

"What the hell game are you playing at?" K.T. demanded, growing rapidly frustrated with the situation. "You gave it to a ghoul, and then sent him wandering around the city? Am I supposed to believe this?"

"I expect you to believe dis because it is true," Patrice stated, his voice even and calm despite the Gangrel's belligerent demeanor. "I 'ave lost one of my most trusted agents in an attempt to keep the communiqué out of de 'ands of dose dat could destroy us. De Black 'and makes use of ghouls, just as we do. Now you realize why you need us, to protect you during de day. While you are in dis city, we can protect you."

"Just like you protected the communiqué?" K.T. inquired coldly. Patrice smiled slightly.

"Better a ghoul to wake you dan no one to warn you of de scimitar over your 'ead," the elder Setite said with a smirk. K.T. could not find a retort, remembering all too well the Assamite that had nearly killed him earlier in the night. While Hassan himself could not travel during daylight hours, the possibility that he had trained ghouls for the express purpose of assassinating vampiric threats put the mercenary ill at ease. "We only wish you to succeed in your endeavor, Mister Corben," Patrice put in after a moment, smoothing over the momentary confrontation. "Please, accept our 'elp, and our friendship."

"Why?" K.T. asked. "Why are you taking these chances? Are you that paranoid of the Sabbat?"

"Let's just say dat you and I bot' 'ave problems with de Black 'and," Patrice stated simply, taking a cigar from his suit jacket and putting it to his lips. K.T. waited a moment for the older vampire to elaborate, but Patrice said nothing more as he calmly drew a match and lit the end of his cigar. The silence was broken as Erica returned from the arsenal, carrying a dizzying array of assault rifles, machineguns, and pistols slung over her shoulders or tucked into her belt.

"I think we got what we need," the Ventrue said, trying to keep the rifles on her shoulders from sliding off of her. "Unless you think we need a rocket launcher or something like that?"

"Put that back," K.T. said sternly, glaring at the gun toting Ventrue. "We can't carry that much firepower with us. Keep one Uzi and a pistol or two."

"But, K.T., we-" Erica started.

"We couldn't use that much firepower if we were going to level Manhattan," K.T. cut in. "Now put it back."

"Alright," Erica muttered, obviously disappointed. She turned back to the stockpile as Clairvius finally returned to the pair, carrying a Ruger Redhawk and several speed loaders with him. As he reached the pair, he held the weapon out to K.T. with a broad smile.

"My gift to you," Clairvius said. K.T. took the weapon without a word, snapping the cylinders open to check the huge revolver. Clairvius glanced over to Erica for a moment, watching her reluctantly replace most of her weapons. "You made de girl put all of 'er toys back?"

"She only has two hands," K.T. said in reply.

"She's a good girl, dough a bit overzealous about de t'ought of getting Jerry," the younger Setite said with a smile. "Take care of 'er, Gangrel. Do not let somet'ing good slip away."

K.T. turned on Clairvius slowly, trying to figure the angle that the enforcer was playing. Fifty years of distrust shone through his eyes as he tried to see through the mirror shades that Clairvius wore to his true motives.

"What the hell game are you playing at?" the Gangrel finally asked, although he knew that he would get no clear answer from the two Jamaicans. Patrice and Clairvius simply smiled, an expression of false innocence on each of their faces.

"We're playing at 'elping you," Patrice said. "Once de girl comes back, we will take you to a safe 'ouse where you can 'eal and spend de day. Now, is dere anyt'ing else you would like?"

"Yeah," K.T. answered. "I'd like to get out of here."

**X**

Only one night had passed since their near fatal meeting with Hassan, but thanks to the Followers of Set, K.T.'s wounds were completely healed. The mercenary looked out over the lights of southern Brooklyn, idly wondering just what the Setites could gain from helping him and Erica out of the bizarre plot that had managed to draw the pair into a series of assassinations and cover ups. The lights of the southernmost stretches of Coney Island glittered in the darkness before him, an integral part of the covert empire that the Followers of Set had built just outside the boundaries of formal Sabbat power in New York City. The Setites were safe here; the Sabbat had all but ceded Brooklyn to the Jamaican vampires and the Italian Giovanni in an attempt to keep them out of the other four boroughs. The Setites had to be doing this for some reason, but the mercenary could not figure out what that reason could be.

Slowly K.T. turned and looked back to Erica, sitting on the couch and staring at the television set in front of her. Jerry's "death" had been hard enough on the young Ventrue _antitribu_. The Sabbat were, if nothing else, phenomenally loyal, almost to a fault, to their packmates. The Vinculum that they shared created bonds that created an extremely loyal family, on the pack level if nowhere else. When she had found out that Jerry was not only alive, but also actively involved in trying to wipe out their pack and subvert the Sabbat, Erica had settled into a grim, emotionless façade that tried in vain to hide the fact that she had been crushed by the betrayal. Already her grief was transforming into a thirst for vengeance that had led her to willingly enter an alliance with Patrice and Clairvius. As Erica looked up, K.T. took a few steps back to the couch of the battered apartment building.

"How are you doing?" the mercenary asked, failing to find anything interesting to say. Erica watched him for a moment, then dropped her eyes again to the television. K.T. watched her for a moment, expecting some kind of answer to the question. When it seemed like he would get no reply, the mercenary began to turn back to the window, trying to formulate some kind of plan of action for the night.

"All this time, I thought he was a decent guy," Erica finally said, regaining K.T.'s attention before he could completely turn away from her. "Even if he was a Lasombra, I thought he was a nice guy. And now this."

K.T. nodded, unable to think of anything to say to his companion. Erica looked up at him, her eyes taking on a murderous glare.

"When we find him, I'll kill him," Erica stated, her voice deathly serious. "I'll make him pay for what he's done."

"Erica, look," K.T. said. "What Jerry did was wrong. I don't like a traitor any more than you do. But we can't focus on Jerry right now. We have more serious problems to deal with. We need to find out exactly who is involved in this conspiracy, and how we can get clear of this mess before Hassan can find us and finish us off."

"Maybe that werewolf guy can find Jerry," Erica suggested, completely ignoring the mercenary's order to forget the Lasombra. "Alex, right?"

"We can't go after Jerry," K.T. pointed out a second time. He would have to be careful dealing with the young Ventrue; complete indifference to her feelings would isolate her, but the two fugitives could not waste time trying to track her former packmate down for some kind of vengeance. "Have you ever heard of this Hassan? Is he in the Sabbat's Black Hand?"

"I don't know for sure," Erica replied. "Maybe Jerry-"

"Jerry can't do a thing for us," K.T. cut in, losing some of his cool. "We need information, not vengeance. Now do you know anyone who might know who Hassan is? Or that other guy that we saw last night, the one with the accent?"

"No," Erica replied, looking down. "Maybe the Shadow Lords? They seemed to know a lot about the Sabbat."

"I don't know," K.T. admitted, mulling over the idea. If Alex or his Lupine comrades knew anything about Hassan, which was unlikely in the first place, the Gangrel had no idea how willing they would be to part with the information. "Do you know anyone in the Sabbat that would have answers?"

"I… don't know," Erica replied. "I… well, we weren't very well liked by a lot of the Sabbat in the city. Most of my friends were Loyalists, and, well, you know how well liked Loyalists are by the others. What about the communiqué?"

"Patrice said that he had given it to a ghoul that turned up dead in the canal last night," K.T. informed his companion. Erica noticed the tinge of disgust in the mercenary's voice, and turned a questioning gaze on him.

"You… don't believe him?" Erica guessed.

"I don't know what he's playing at, but I don't like this one bit," K.T. replied. "If he wanted to keep this communiqué safe, why did he give it to a ghoul and send him out into the city?"

"We certainly wouldn't have found it, if we were the ones looking for it," Erica pointed out. K.T. turned a scowl on her. "But what could he gain from keeping it from us?"

"I don't know," K.T. said, his frustration and disgust with his situation evident in his voice. The only person he could trust in a city of over eight million people was the one person that knew even less than he did. He needed someone in power, someone that could identify the key players in this Black Hand conspiracy, if they could be identified at all. K.T. looked out the window again, watching traffic crawl by on Cropsey Avenue, trying to think of someone that could help the two fugitives out of this mess. "Maybe we should just go to Polonia."

"And how would we get in to see him?" the Ventrue asked, looking over to the Gangrel at the mention of the cardinal of the entire eastern United States. "Just go out to the Bronx and ask one of his templars for a meeting on the grounds that we think the Black Hand is trying to oust him? I'm a Loyalist, and you're not even Sabbat. That would go over real well. Especially since we're dealing with Setites right now."

"I'm out of options," K.T. said, throwing his hands up. He turned back to the window, trying to think of some way to find out what he was up against. "I really don't…"

The mercenary forgot what he was about to say as he heard the latest story on the news. Another scandal was sweeping through New York City's government, leaving councilmen scrambling for cover amidst the fallout of alleged mob contacts in construction projects along Manhattan's waterfront. But the dirtier details of New York politics was hardly what caught the Gangrel's eyes and ears as he turned to the television on his right. What did immediately fix his attention was the well dressed lawyer at the podium in front of City Hall just after sundown, addressing the throng of reporters as he adjusted his gold rimmed glasses on his nose and turned a cold gaze on the media with his keen, hazel eyes.

"I can assure you that no one in City Hall has done anything to collect private funds in conjunction with the alleged inside bidding done on city projects in Manhattan or Brooklyn," the well dressed, distinguished lawyer stated in a stern tone. Although the Scottish accent was missing, the clear, authoritative voice and the graying black hair gave a commanding, almost larger than life presence to the lawyer that was all too familiar to the mercenary. "The funding received by the councilmen in question has all gone through the proper legislative councils as appropriations for city projects, and the paperwork will be made available at the start of business tomorrow. That is all I have to say on the issues presented, good night."

For a long moment, K.T. could do nothing but stare at the television as Connor MacIntyre, a highly influential and well known lawyer for many of the city's councilmen, strode away from the podium and the mess of newspaper and TV reporters that tried to question him further on the matters of bribery in the city's government. The scandal, however, mattered nothing to K.T. as he looked slowly to his stunned companion.

"Jesus Christ," Erica breathed out, staring at the screen as the news moved on to a fire in a Brooklyn warehouse.

"No wonder he looked familiar," K.T. concluded. "He's the fourth member of the Black Hand conspiracy!"

"Great, we have a starting point," Erica stated. "But, what do we do now? We can't just barge in on him and start asking questions. We don't know how old he is, or who might be guarding him?"

"We'll stop by his offices after hours," K.T. decided, beginning to formulate some kind of plan. "We can search his place for anything that might give us a little more information on who we're dealing with, and maybe enough to turn over to someone that can resolve this situation."

"Do you think that'll work?" Erica asked, uncertain.

"How the hell should I know?" K.T. asked, picking up the brand new duster and Ruger that Clairvius had provided for him the previous night. "I'm making this up as I go."

"Wonderful," Erica said, beginning to open the door to the hallway. K.T. pulled his duster on and holstered his Ruger, preparing to follow the Ventrue out, when Erica was thrown back into the room by a shotgun blast.

"Alright, bitch!" Cordoba snarled, exploding into the room and pressing the smoking barrel of his weapon into Erica's chest. "Answers! Now! What the fuck is going on?"

K.T. drew his Ruger and took quick aim, getting the irate Panders' attention as he drilled Cordoba in the side with a single round. The mercenary had expected Cordoba to stumble back into the hall, Or at least show some sign of injury, but Cordoba simply took the hit with a grunt of pain and lifted his shotgun to bear on the Gangrel.

"We really don't have time for this, Cordoba," K.T. stated, taking quick aim on the Panders' head.

"I want answers," the Panders growled, locking gazes with the mercenary. "This little geek and her Lasombra bosom buddy set me up. I want to know what's going on."

"Set you up?" Erica repeated, trying to squirm out from under the Panders. "Are you that dense? Jerry set me up, you stupid bastard!"

"Shut up!" Cordoba shouted, pointing the shotgun at Erica again.

"She's right," K.T. said, trying to defuse the situation without any more gunfire. Cordoba looked up from the Ventrue to the mercenary, surprise on his face. Erica slowly started to reach for her Glock, but Cordoba noticed the movement and stomped down on the Ventrue's hand with one massive boot. Erica stifled a cry of pain as the Panders ground her hand into the floor.

"_Eres muerte, puta_!" the Panders snapped, pumping his shotgun and pushing the barrel into Erica's throat. K.T. covered the ten feet between them in a heartbeat, his Ruger coming to Cordoba's temple even as the Panders changed targets and jammed his weapon into the mercenary's gut.

"Listen, we both don't want to pull the trigger, so let's just control ourselves and put the guns down," K.T. said, keeping himself under control. He knew he was walking a very fine line; Cordoba was lashing out at anything in his way, and the mercenary doubted that he could take the furious Panders in a straight up fight under the present conditions. "We're all getting fucked over by the Black Hand, so let's try not to make enemies of about the only people we can trust."

Cordoba simply glared at his opponent for a long, tense moment, trying to discern the mercenary's honesty. K.T. kept his finger squarely on the trigger of the Ruger, hoping that he would not have to test his fortitude against the shotgun at point blank range.

"What makes you so sure it's the Hand?" Cordoba asked, his shotgun still shoved into K.T.'s gut. "They would never take Bonifay or this little brat."

"The Hand isn't just that bunch of thugs, moron," Erica said. "Why don't you get the whole situation straight before you try shooting someone else?"

"You're really not making things any better, Erica," K.T. said, a bit nervously. He glanced down at the barrel of the shotgun, and then back to Cordoba's face. "What do you say we stop pointing guns at each other and compare notes?"

Another tense moment of silence followed. To K.T., it seemed like an eternity.

"Alright," Cordoba finally said. Slowly, he started to retract the shotgun from K.T.'s stomach. The mercenary finally slid his Ruger back into its holster, and helped Erica to her feet as the Panders removed his boot from her now broken hand.

"Our cover blown by a shotgun wielding maniac," Erica huffed, glaring at Cordoba while she healed the damage to her hand. Then she lunged at the Panders, ready to slap him across the face. K.T. quickly put himself between the pair, trying to hold each one back before they could reach each other. "That hurt, you dumb son of a bitch!"

"Erica, come on!" K.T. ordered, pushing the Ventrue back into the living room. Cordoba simply folded his arms across his chest and waited for the Ventrue to try to attack him a second time. Erica simply flipped Cordoba off, then picked at her ruined shirt.

"I hope I have something to change into," the Ventrue grumbled, stomping into the bedroom in search of a new shirt.

"You're breaking my heart, bitch," Cordoba stated with disgust.

"We have to get moving," K.T. stated. "That little gunfight won't go unnoticed for long. How the hell did you find us, anyway?"

"Some guy named Brian told em the chances were good that I'd find you at this address," Cordoba replied. "Now what the hell is going on?"

"Great, just great," K.T. muttered. "Just when things couldn't get any worse. You have any transportation?"

"A Jeep I borrowed in Manhattan," Cordoba answered. "You know this Brian? Who the hell is he?"

"Some mage with a faint grip on reality," K.T. answered, ignoring the look of surprise on the Panders' face. "We can take you Jeep back into Manhattan, then. We have to go to MacIntyre's offices, anyway."

"MacIntyre? Who the hell is MacIntyre?" Cordoba asked as Erica reappeared with a new shirt.

"Maybe, if you tried asking questions instead of shooting people, you'd know what we found out," Erica pointed out in a condescending tone.

"We don't need you, _chica_," Cordoba stated, raising his shotgun. K.T. slapped the weapon aside as he started out into the hallway.

"Both of you, just try to play nice for a few minutes," the mercenary instructed. "Now let's go, before one of our many admirers show up."

Erica walked past Cordoba as he stood in the doorway, following K.T. to the stairs at the end of the hall. Cordoba watched them go past for a moment, then hurried to catch up with the two fugitives.

"Is anyone going to tell me who MacIntyre is?" the Panders demanded

___________________________________________________________________

"God, I'm so good that sometimes I even impress myself!"

"Your night is going well, I presume?" Clairvius guessed, looking up from the table loaded with drugs where he sat. In front of him, Brian sauntered into the dingy, unkempt warehouse office with a gigantic smile on his face, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

"You betcha!" the mage replied, leaning forward on the table and looking straight into Clairvius' mirror shades. Though the Setite's eyes were hidden, his faintly amused look showed through in his smirk and an arched eyebrow. "I am the greatest mage in the world!"

"I am pleased to 'ear dat," Clairvius said, returning to the delicate task of measuring out doses of heroin. "'ow are our friends doing?"

"I thought you'd get around to asking that," Brian said, his smug smile in place. "Your little friends were running around in circles, so I put the right news article on at the right time. And then, since poor K.T. is so underpowered as it is, I saddled him with Cordoba."

Clairvius' smile faded away as he looked up from his measuring scales.

"You gave dem Cordoba?" the Setite repeated. Brian nodded, oblivious to the concern in the Jamaican's voice.

"It makes perfect sense!" the mage told his accomplice. "Look, K.T. is a card carrying killer, but that pretty little Erica barely knows which end of the gun to point at the bad guy! So I said to myself, 'Self, what does K.T. need to make sure that he can move forward?' And the answer I came up with was one more gun toting psycho to make K.T. feel like he has the firepower he needs to get himself out of any jams!"

"Your t'reat to turn 'im into a lawn jockey was enough incentive for 'im to finish de job," Clairvius pointed out. "'e did not need so dangerous an ally as Cordoba."

"Relax, chief," Brian said, leaning forward on the table again. "Everything's going according to plan! Better, even!"

"And what about de mage you want to kill?" Clairvius asked. "Is 'e in town?"

"Who the fuck knows?" Brian answered, shrugging. "You're the ones that want me to kill him. I don't care what happens to him either way. You wanted a reason for me to be involved, I came up with one."

"As long as you don't tell dat to K.T.," Clairvius warned. Brian's face erupted once more into a huge smile. 

"Clairvius, we're allies!" the mage exclaimed, shocked that the Setite would expect any kind of deception from him. "I wouldn't do anything to endanger our partnership!"

Clairvius nodded, then went back to sorting the heroin. Brian remained standing in front of him for another thirty seconds before he cleared his throat.

"Yes?" Clairvius inquired, looking up at the mage.

"My heroin," the mage prompted, his voice growing dead serious. Clairvius nodded, and sorted out an ounce for the mage.

"You can get 'eroin anywhere in dis city," the Jamaican pointed out.

"But it just doesn't do what your heroin does," Brian explained with a smile as he took the vial from the Setite. "It's worth chasing a stupid vampire around! Toodles, Clairvius! Tell your bald friend I said hello, once he finishes doing his Seven Up commercials!"

Clairvius watched the mage strut out of his dingy office for a long moment, then smiled.

"No 'eroin does what my 'eroin does," the Setite said quietly to the closed door.

____________________________________________________________________

Located in the shadow of the New York Stock Exchange, the law offices of MacIntyre, Kent, and Milford dominated the penthouse offices of an impressive, fifty story structure of mirrored glass and steel, standing out even among the other architectural masterpieces on Nassau Street. As Cordoba pulled his stolen Grand Cherokee onto the avenue in the heart of the financial district of Manhattan, he looked over to K.T. skeptically.

"So this Connor MacIntyre, who regularly makes appearances in City Hall to defend idiot politicians, and has an office in this neighborhood, is part of the Black Hand," the Panders stated, still showing his disbelief.

"Yeah," K.T. answered. He pushed open the passenger side door of the vehicle, and stepped out onto the street. "Keep the car close. We might need it."

"Oh, this is great," Cordoba grumbled, watching as the Gangrel started around the front of the Jeep and headed for the tinted glass front of MacIntyre's building.

"Park the car, driver," Erica said, sliding out of the Jeep herself to join her companion. Cordoba turned to the back seat, ready to give the Ventrue a scathing retort, but Erica shut the door before he could say anything and rushed across the street to join the mercenary on the sidewalk.

"_Puta_," the Panders grumbled to the door. He pulled the car up another half block, then double parked on the opposite side of the street. 

Cordoba caught up with his two new allies as K.T. pushed his way through the tinted glass revolving doors of the office building, entering into a gigantic lobby with black marble floors and walls where the heavily shaded glass did not offer a view of the streets outside. Sitting in front of the four elevators ahead, a slightly pudgy, middle aged security guard looked up from the security desk, studying the newcomers to the office building with a hint of suspicion. Erica came up to K.T.'s side as the mercenary hesitated, following his line of sight to the guard.

"I got him," the Ventrue said, turning a smirk on her companion.

"Subtle," K.T. reminded her, hoping that her idea of taking care of the guard was not shooting him in the face at close range.

"I know," Erica said, as though the warning was totally unnecessary. She turned and sauntered up to the desk, acting and looking like a lost tourist. Erica got the guard's attention only a second before Cordoba pushed through the doors, carrying a bag over his shoulder and barely keeping his shotgun out of sight underneath his overcoat.

"Hi!" Erica said brightly as she leaned on the counter directly opposite the guard. The man glanced past her, trying to get a good look at the Ventrue's two companions, but Erica quickly regained his attention. "Hey, can you tell me if we're in the Chrysler Building?"

"No, you're not," the guard replied, growing even more suspicious.

"Damnit! I knew we went the wrong way!" Erica exclaimed. Okay, just go to sleep."

The guard looked at Erica for a moment, utterly confused, but then his eyes closed and he fell back in his chair. Erica patted him lightly on the head, then turned back to K.T. and Cordoba as they reached the desk.

"Shoulda just whacked him," Cordoba said, circling the desk and starting to the elevators. "Now he knows we were here."

"And no one would ever guess that we were here if we shot him," Erica concluded, a sarcastic tone to her voice. "Because no one would notice a guard with half his head missing in this building."

"That's why you stab him in the chest," Cordoba pointed out irritably. "Dead men tell no tales."

"He stays alive, and that's final," K.T. said. "He won't figure out exactly what happened for days."

"And since this city is full of dumb blondes, he'll never be able to pick Erica out," Cordoba added. The Ventrue shot an angry look at the Panders, but Cordoba simply chuckled as the three got into the elevator and ascended to the penthouse floors. Silently, K.T. wondered if the three of them would survive each other long enough to get killed by their enemies.

The elevator doors opened on the forty-ninth floor, leading into a spacious lobby with charcoal colored carpeting and neatly painted, steel blue walls. A single bronze plaque adorned the wall opposite the elevator door, listing the names of the three attorneys and the date of their establishment as a firm in 1973. Slowly K.T. edged out of the elevator and into the foyer, glancing around the room from the blank wall on his right to the vacated reception desk on his left. Just beyond the desk, a pair of glass doors led into the offices of the attorneys.

"I'm surprised," Cordoba said, keeping his voice low. "You'd think someone would be here to shoot at us."

"They're probably waiting in Connor's office for us," Erica put in quietly.

"Shut up and let's get this over with," K.T. ordered. With one last check of the room for any kind of surveillance equipment, the mercenary made his way to the glass doors and peered into the short hallway beyond. Finally, alert for any signs of an enemy or a security measure, the Gangrel pushed his way into the hall and began his search for Connor MacIntyre's office. Cordoba remained a few steps behind, breaking off as the short hallway branched into two slightly longer passages leading farther into the darkened law firm. Several doors lined the corridor, but none of the frosted glass panes were stenciled with the names of the office occupants.

"K.T.," Erica called out quietly behind the mercenary. K.T. turned back to the Ventrue as she pointed to the first door on the left wall. "This is his office."

"How do you know?" K.T. asked, coming to her side.

"Desk register," Erica replied with a smile that bordered on smug. "Can you get in here?"

"I can give it a try," K.T. replied, coming back to the office and examining the door. It was completely unremarkable, with no traces of any kind of alarm systems. After a moment of deliberation, K.T. finally took out his wallet and removed a credit card.

"You really don't think that stupid trick is going to work, do you?" the Ventrue inquired as the mercenary slid the card between the door and the frame. K.T. shrugged, and swiped the card down through the space. After three unsuccessful tries, he finally got the card to force the door open. Without even looking back at the surprised Ventrue, K.T. stepped into the office and examined the office.

Connor MacIntyre's private office was an immaculately clean, spartan, and windowless room, with nothing more than a hardwood desk and a chair on either side. Nothing adorned the walls or the desk of the office, giving a sterile feel to the entire office. Erica stepped into the room behind the mercenary, looking past K.T. to the largely empty office.

"Nothing," she said simply. "No cameras, no motion sensors, nothing."

"Confident man," K.T. said quietly. Quickly the mercenary made his way to the desk and started picking his way through the drawers, hoping for something that would give him a clue as to the true nature of his enemies. After two full drawers of legal notes and billing sheets, however, nothing incriminating had appeared in the desk. Erica seemed to be having the same bad luck, but as she reached the bottom of one drawer, she stopped for a moment and examined the plain wooden drawer for a long moment.

"K.T.," the Ventrue said, handing the drawer over to the mercenary. K.T. looked the bottom of the drawer over for a long moment, until he finally found what had caught Erica's attention.

"False bottom," the Gangrel confirmed, setting the drawer on the floor and taking out his credit card once more. Carefully he slipped the card between the false bottom and the side of the drawer, then pried out the lid. Setting the false bottom aside, K.T. found a few sheets of paper, listing names, phone numbers, and addresses. Erica looked over his shoulder as he read through the list, letting out a low whistle as she recognized several names.

"This guy's connected," the Ventrue pointed out, taking the sheet from K.T. as he moved on through the small pile of papers. "These are some of the biggest businessmen and politicians in the city. What do you think he wants with all these guys?"

"You know anyone named Germaine Corveaux?" K.T. asked, ignoring Erica's question.

"I think he's a Toreador, but a Camarilla Toreador," Erica answered. "I don't know for sure, though. The Toreador get hit so many times, and they've gone through so many primogen, that I don't even think they know who's in charge. Why?"

"Connor knows who he is," K.T. explained, handing a second sheet of paper to the Ventrue. Erica looked the note over for a moment, her brow furrowing in puzzlement.

Germaine,

I hope things have gone well for you over the last two months. I know that the Toreador have been targeted by the Sabbat recently, and several brutal raids have severely injured your base of power and your chances of recovering lost influence in the City of New York. I know your thirst for vengeance, and can sympathize with your position and your desire to see the Sabbat injured in retaliation for what they have done to you and yours.

That being said, however, I have decided that now is not a good time to have the Gangrel push into northern Manhattan. At the next meeting of the primogen, make certain that you vote against the upcoming strike at the Sabbat's power base in Harlem and the Cloisters. It is imperative that we not strike until we know more about the enemy. It will benefit you in the long run.

Connor

"MacIntyre's Camarilla?" Erica asked, looking back to K.T. "But then, how could he be involved with the Black Hand? Unless he's a double agent. But if he is, which side is he really working for?"

"This is just great," K.T. grumbled, shaking his head. If Connor was a part of both the Camarilla and the Black Hand, the possibility that his career and his life were rapidly coming to an end was multiplied exponentially. The last thing he needed was to be blackballed by both sides of the war at the same time. Then it would only be a matter of a few months before he would most likely end up killed by a pack of Sabbat nomads or the sheriff of a Camarilla held city. "This is just fucking great."

"And it's about to get even better," Cordoba said from the doorway. K.T. and Erica both turned, hands dropping to their weapons, to see the Panders holding a man dressed in a SWAT uniform and flak vest. A long slit had been cut across his throat, and his chest was stained with blood. "This guy has five partners spreading out to find us as we speak."

"You idiot! They'll follow that blood trail right to us!" Erica snapped, keeping her voice low as she pointed to the crimson stains on the hallway carpet. Cordoba shrugged as he dumped the body inside the office door.

"Then MacIntyre'll have a fun time explaining this one to the press tomorrow," the Panders said with a bit of a smile. He glanced over his shoulder, then stepped inside and rapidly pulled the door shut. For a long moment, the Panders waited just inside the closed door, his MAC-10 in his left hand and a huge combat knife in his right. K.T. pulled his Ruger, but remained silent next to the desk as he waited tensely for the Panders to explain the situation outside the office.

"Jay?" someone whispered, just outside the door. The doorknob rattled for a moment, then the man outside knocked quietly. "Jay? Come on, what's going on in there?"

"Nothing," Cordoba coughed out, disguising his voice.

"Unlock the door, Jay!" the unseen man called out, still keeping his voice down. Cordoba stepped in front of the door and sheathed his knife, but then opened up with his machinegun at waist height. There was a scream of pain from the other side of the door as Cordoba caught the unseen SWAT officer in the hail of gunfire. The Panders stopped firing after only a few seconds, and the office complex fell into silence but for a slight crackle somewhere in the corridor.

"What the fuck are you doing?" K.T. demanded, furious. Cordoba turned to the Gangrel, surprised by the outburst. "Maybe you'd like to go out there and call the rest of the cops over here, shit for brains!"

"I think you're overestimating a few cops, Gangrel," Cordoba said with a shrug. He turned and started for the door, ready to continue the carnage. "I can take them down myself."

"We keep the mortals out of this!" K.T. ordered, spinning Cordoba around by the shoulder. "They don't know who we are or what's going on, so they're not targets! And if that ain't enough, think about how many cops are going to be after us because you mowed down a few mortals, dumbfuck! We won't be able to move in this city for weeks!"

"You're lucky we have bigger problems right now, _cabrón_," Cordoba growled, leaning in close to K.T.'s face. For a moment, neither one backed down, ignoring the need to escape to try and establish some sort of dominance over each other.

"You can play your stupid macho games later!" Erica suddenly broke in, practically dragging K.T. away from the Panders. "We have to get out of here, now!"

"Later," K.T. threatened, turning away from Cordoba. Erica rushed through the office door, but leapt back only a second before gunfire filled the corridor. Bullets tore through the doorframe and the walls, pinning the three fugitives inside the office.

"You want to not shoot them now?" Cordoba asked derisively, looking back to K.T. as the mercenary braced himself to fire on the police. "Better not draw any attention! They might figure out we're here!"

"If you hadn't blown the door and a SWAT officer to pieces, we might have gotten out of here without a major firefight, dickhead!" K.T. retorted, spinning into the hall for a split second and opening up on the now half dozen officers responding to the original gunfire. "What kind of bright ideas do you have now?"

"Give me a second!" Cordoba snapped back, rolling into the hall and blazing away with his MAC-10. The weapon ran out of ammunition in a heartbeat, and the Panders switched to his shotgun. He let off two blasts, then pulled a bottle and a rag out of his coat. "Keep them busy!"

"Oh, this is fucking beautiful," K.T. grumbled, letting two more rounds go before he was forced back under cover.

"What? You're gonna set the building on fire? That's wonderful!" Erica exclaimed, adding her own cover fire to the fray as she drew her micro-Uzi. She let one quick burst down the hallway before gunfire forced her back behind the wall.

"No, not the building!" Cordoba countered, lighting the rag stuck in the top of the bottle. "Just the _cabrónes_ in the hall! Get ready to run!"

Cordoba threw the Molotov cocktail before either of his companions could say anything more, hurling it straight into the lead SWAT officer. Within a heartbeat the officer, along with his closest partners, were caught in a brilliant plume of fire as the gasoline inside the bottle ignited and sprayed out across the assault team. Cordoba leapt out into the hall, firing a pair of quick blasts at the burning police officers, then bolted in the opposite direction. K.T. hurried out next, then turned back to Erica. The Ventrue started out into the hall, but then backed into MacIntyre's office.

"Erica! Come on!" K.T. shouted, firing once down the hall to keep any reinforcements from rushing past their burning companions.

"No way!" Erica exclaimed, her voice tinged with fear. "The hall's on fire!"

"We don't have time for this!" K.T. countered, grabbing the Ventrue by her shirt and dragging her back out into the hall. The mercenary should have expected such an occurrence from Cordoba's idiot tactics; the _Rötschreck_, the innate, overpowering fear of fire and sunlight that plagued all vampires, could have taken control of any one of the three, or even all of them at once. Had that happened, the group would have been pinned inside MacIntyre's office long enough for the police to arrive in force and eventually overpower the group by sheer numbers. As it was, the mercenary had to hurl Erica after Cordoba, she started to run, the Ventrue put distance between herself and the fire with all the speed she could muster. Within a minute, the pair had joined Cordoba at the elevator doors, only a second before they slid open.

"We're going to have a very long talk about using fire in confined spaces, Mister Pyromaniac," K.T. stated, jabbing Cordoba in the chest with his finger.

"It worked, didn't it?" Cordoba pointed out, unconcerned with the mercenary's foul mood. "And I am not Mister Pyromaniac. He's in San Francisco."

"Get in the fucking elevator," K.T. ordered. Cordoba gave the Gangrel a good natured smile, then slipped inside the cab. Erica ducked in behind him, and K.T. backed in as the Panders pushed a handful of different floors on the keypad.

"They'll be waiting for us on the ground," Cordoba said. "We can get off at one of these floors, and then make our way down through a service elevator or some other route."

"Yeah, I wonder why they all know we're here, Cordoba," Erica said angrily. "Maybe because someone is just a little bit trigger happy?"

"Don't make me hurt you, little girl," Cordoba stated evenly. Then he turned to K.T. "How are you doing on ammo?"

"I'll hold up, for now," the Gangrel answered. "How about you?"

"They could throw the National Guard at me, and I'd still have enough bullets," the Panders answered with a smile as he hefted his bag. The elevator stopped at the thirty-ninth floor, but Cordoba quickly closed the doors before anyone could get out of the cab.

"I think we missed our stop," Erica stated as the elevator began its descent.

"We go down further, stupid," Cordoba said. "What, didn't you think they'd check the first floor number that we stopped at?"

"Dick," Erica grumbled, glaring at the Panders. Cordoba simply smiled back at her, a clear sign to K.T. that the Panders was having far too much fun with the entire situation. The elevator stopped again, but once more the three stayed in the cab, waiting until the twenty-ninth floor to leave the elevator.

K.T. glanced out into the hall., but everything was clear in the dimly lit corridor. Cordoba moved out past him, hurrying to the right in a search for some kind of service elevator or fire door. K.T. followed along behind, leaving Erica to bring up the rear as they made their way quickly through brokerage offices and rows of cubicles. Finally, the three found themselves at a service elevator used by the cleaning service. Cordoba punched a button, and they waited in tense silence as the service elevator ascended to the offices. Erica pushed herself farther back into the darkness as she heard the first noises of pursuit somewhere on the floor. K.T. silently checked the cylinder of his Ruger, noting how many rounds were left in the gun. Finally, the elevator doors slid open, and the three fugitives disappeared inside.

"It won't take long for them, to figure out where we went," Erica pointed out, keeping her voice low and speaking primarily to K.T. "They've got to have someone watching these service elevators."

"Cordoba, stop us on seven," K.T. instructed. Cordoba nodded, hitting the appropriate button on the control panel. Erica glanced to K.T. questioningly, but no explanation was forthcoming from the Gangrel. After hitting the floor, Cordoba moved into the center of the elevator and looked up at the grate in the ceiling. Then he glanced over to K.T.

"Just a little out of my reach," the Panders pointed out. "Erica, get over here."

"What the hell are you planning on doing?" the Ventrue asked, suspicious of the Panders' motives.

"We're going into the shaft," K.T. explained. "You're the lightest. You just volunteered to go first."

"Oh, great," Erica said, hesitant. "Couldn't we just take the stairs or something?"

"Sure, and run right into a SWAT group," Cordoba finished. "Great idea. You go that way and attract their attention."

"Just get up and open the grate," K.T. said, deflecting any further argument between his two allies. Erica hesitated for another second, but finally relented to being lifted up to the grate by Cordoba. With a slight struggle, the Ventrue managed to push the grate onto the roof, and pulled herself up through the opening. K.T. glanced to the wall counter, seeing that they only had about eight more floors left before the seventh floor.

"Time to go," Cordoba prompted. K.T. nodded and quickly stepped into Cordoba's cupped hands, rising quickly through the ceiling. As the Gangrel pulled himself onto the roof of the cab, he reached back in quickly, grabbing Cordoba's hand and helping him up and out of the elevator. K.T. pushed the grate back into place just as the elevator came to a stop on the seventh floor.

The shaft suddenly filled with the roar of gunfire as the elevator cab was torn apart in a hail of bullets. The three fugitives pulled their weapons quickly and aimed down into the cab, waiting for a long moment, but then the gunfire ceased abruptly. An last, dying tone escaped the elevator as the doors squealed open.

"Shit. Where are they?" someone demanded below. K.T. glanced around quickly, seeing a ladder set into a depression in the back wall of the shaft. He motioned for Erica to climb down the rungs. The Ventrue glared at him for a moment, then tucked her gun into her waistline and reached out for the ladder. She nearly slipped and fell into the space between the cab and the wall, but caught her balance and started to climb down into the darkness silently.

"Check every floor, three by three," an order came from inside the riddled cab. "I want those three found and dealt with."

"Yes sir," another man said as Cordoba jumped out to the ladder. His boots made a slight thump on the metal rungs, making K.T. wince as he glanced back down at the grate. Through the tiny slits in the covering, he could barely see someone glance around, then up. The mercenary backed out of the way, even though he was almost certain that there was no way to see him through the grate. Cordoba hesitated for a moment, then rapidly made his way down after Erica. Finally, K.T. leaned out and caught the ladder, starting his descent just as the grate in the cab's roof was shoved back out of the opening. K.T. tried to get down below the level of the cab before someone could poke their head out of the opening, but he had barely managed to take another step down before an older SWAT team member rose out of the elevator. For a moment, the mercenary and the police officer locked eyes, each one surprised for a split second by the other.

"They're in the shaft!" the man suddenly shouted, fumbling to try and bring a gun to bear on the Gangrel. K.T. wasted no more time as he drew his Ruger and took half of the man's head off with one thunderous boom. Just below him, Cordoba turned on the ladder and fired his MAC-10 through the wall of the cab. There were shouts and screams from the elevator and the hallway beyond it.

"Move!" K.T. shouted to the Panders below him. Cordoba quickly started moving again,. Dropping down steps three at a time and nearly kicking Erica off of the ladder in his hurry to escape. K.T. holstered his Ruger and started to rush down the side of the shaft when another torrent of fire ripped through the elevator, impacting on the wall all around him as he simply dropped off of the ladder and fell, taking one more shot through his arm. The Gangrel stifled a cry of pain as the bullet that hit him seared through his shoulder like a hot poker, then grabbed desperately at the rungs before he could fall freely down to the bottom of the elevator shaft. Erica and Cordoba had already covered most of the distance to the ground floor, and by the time K.T. had joined them, the Panders had ripped open the shaft doors and helped the Ventrue out into a large storage room. As K.T. struggled back to his feet, Erica nearly jumped back into the shaft to help him up. Cordoba warned her off with a stern glance, then helped the Gangrel to his feet.

"Smoking," the Panders said simply, gesturing to the charred hole in K.T.'s duster.

"They're using phosphorous," Erica concluded, a hint of nerves in her voice. No police officer, even in SWAT, would ever be equipped with incendiaries, leading to the obvious conclusion that at least some of the officers knew the true nature of the criminals that they hunted. "How the hell could they possibly know?"

"I tell you what, you go upstairs and ask one of them," Cordoba said, helping K.T. up and out of the elevator shaft. Erica helped K.T. into the storage room as she glared at Cordoba, furious with his casual demeanor and still blaming him for the botched intelligence mission. Cordoba pulled himself up into the storage room after K.T., and followed Erica as she cracked open the door on the other side of the room and glanced outside.

"Parking garage," the Ventrue whispered back in after a few seconds. "Nobody down here that I can see."

"Then let's go," Cordoba said. "Before someone does come down here and look for us."

Erica glared at the Panders for a second, then pushed her way out into the dim confines of the parking garage. At the late hour of the night, the garage was nearly empty, except for a couple of vehicles parked on the opposite side of the cavernous deck. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but the garage remained otherwise silent. The three fugitives started quickly across the lot, K.T. in the lead as he quickly appraised the three vehicles in the garage.

"Which one?" Erica asked as K.T. made a quick decision.

"The Beamer," the mercenary replied, pointing to the silver car closest to them. "It'll take the most punishment."

"I wish you wouldn't take the BMW," an impossibly familiar voice said from behind the fugitives. "It's a personal favorite. Take the Lexus instead."

"MacIntyre?" K.T. guessed, dumbfounded. He spun quickly, his Ruger already coming up into line, to see the Black Hand lawyer standing behind them with his hands clasped behind his back. He seemed completely relaxed, despite the fact that he was apparently unarmed and faced with three rogue vampires, and the mercenary glanced around quickly for any sign of the others.

"This is the guy?" Cordoba asked, pumping his shotgun.

"Yeah," Erica confirmed, lifting her Uzi. The two fired away at the man, but Connor did not so much as twitch as the bullets passed through his body. Connor simply chuckled as the two stopped firing, and patted his suit jacket down.

"A simple trick with mirrors," he said, smiling at the two shooters. His image disappeared then, and his voice seemed to echo through the garage. "Cheap Hollywood theatrics. How fitting that one of your generation should be fooled by such amateur stunts."

"I'll find you and cut you into a thousand little pieces, you arrogant little prick!" Cordoba threatened, shouting loud enough to be heard throughout the garage. "Come on out and play, _puto_!  
"Well, I might not be in front of you, but I must be in the garage somewhere," Connor pointed out, an amused tone to his voice. "Come find me, Panders. How far away can I really be?"

"You better run, cause I'm coming!" Cordoba shouted, rushing into the parking deck.

"Cordoba, wait!" Erica shouted after the enraged Panders. "Come back! We have to get the hell out of here!"

"He wants to get himself killed, let him go," K.T. said, covering the rest of the distance to the BMW. He smashed in the window with the revolver, then holstered the weapon and opened the door as the vehicle's alarm sounded. "I'm not sticking around to find out how many assassins he has with him this time."

"Well, hurry up," Erica said, glancing around the parking deck. A volley of gunfire went up from somewhere deeper in the garage, echoing through the garage as K.T. managed to disable the car alarm. She looked one direction quickly, then turned back to where she had heard the gunfire. In the second that she had looked away, Graime had suddenly appeared in front of her.

"He said take the Lexus!" the assassin pointed out angrily. Erica tried to jump back and open fire on the Malkavian, but Graime moved before she could level her Uzi at him. His first blast was aimed at her arm, and buckshot nearly flayed all of the skin and flesh from her wrist. She dropped the Uzi as her tendons and muscles nearly disintegrated under the point blank blast, but that was the least of her concerns as she tried to twist out of the way of the assassin's second shot. Still moving a fraction of a second slower than the assassin, Erica took the brunt of the second blast in the chest, stumbling back and falling against the back of the BMW. As she tried to regain her senses and find a weapon, Graime grabbed her by her hair and whirled her around, putting his machete to her throat. He hesitated a moment as he looked into Erica's eyes. "Sorry," the assassin said. "But, the Old Man of the Mountain has decreed that you must die."

"The Old Man? Connor?" Erica asked, trying to stall for time. She prayed that K.T. would notice what was going on and shoot the Malkavian before he could decapitate her.

"Connor? Of course not!" Graime replied, taking the moment to answer Erica's question. "He just speaks for the Old Man of the Mountain! Do you think I would tell you who the Old Man of the Mountain actually is?"

"I had hoped," Erica said, trying to heal some of the extensive damage that Graime her done to her. The assassin was already drawing his arm back, ready to take her head from her shoulders, but K.T. was still nowhere to be found. The Ventrue tried to roll off of the car, but Graime grabbed her to hold her still until he finished the cut.

K.T.'s Ruger suddenly boomed out of the front of the car, the bullet hitting Graime square in the chest before he could bring the machete down. Erica and the Malkavian fell away from each other as K.T. leaned out of the front door of the Beamer and took another shot. His second round hit Graime in the shoulder, but the assassin quickly leapt away from a third blast and came up with his Skorpion at the ready. Erica staggered around the car and yanked open the passenger side door, nearly falling into the car as another burst of machinegun fire nearly raked the top of her head.

"Do you have that started yet?" Erica asked, finally healing herself enough to rejoin the fight against Graime.

"Give me a second!" K.T. shouted as he went back to work on the steering column. "This ain't an American car!"

"Didn't you have enough time while that maniac was telling me that I was about to die?!" the Ventrue shouted, firing through the rear window of the car a second after Graime shattered the glass. "What the hell were you waiting for?"

"You were gathering information!" K.T. shot back. He twisted another two wires together, and the diesel engine of the BMW roared to life. "Finally!"

"Now get us the hell out of here!" Erica shouted, her voice getting lost in the din of gunfire echoing through the garage. "Where's Cordoba?"

"How the hell should I know?" K.T. shouted back, trying to get into a position where he could actually drive. Erica let off one more shot at the Malkavian, but then her eyes went wide as she saw the assassin reach into his leather jacket.

"Oh shit, floor it!" Erica ordered frantically. K.T. shoved his hand down on the gas pedal as the Ventrue jammed the gear shift into reverse, and the BMW screamed back out of its parking space as Graime hurled a grenade at the wall where it had been. Erica shouted something at K.T., but her voice was lost in the explosion just in front of them, deafening the pair for only a second before the BMW slammed into the far wall of the parking lot. K.T. tried to get up high enough to look over the dashboard, but Cordoba suddenly rammed into the passenger side of the car, shoving Erica on top of the Gangrel before he could get off the floor.

"Hit the gas!" the Panders shouted angrily, shooting through the front windshield of the Beamer. K.T. leaned down on the accelerator again. The car streaked forward, ramming through something as Cordoba shoved Erica further on top of K.T. The driver's side door flopped crazily on its hinges for a moment, but then the Beamer scraped along one of the garage walls and the door tore loose, leaving K.T. staring at the blacktop rushing past his side of the car. The car screamed out of the parking lot, jumping the curb and landing on the street amid a number of other vehicles blaring their horns at the newcomer.

"Did we lose him?" the Gangrel asked, trying to see something other than asphalt or the steering column.

"Brake! Brake now!" Cordoba ordered, ignoring the mercenary's question. K.T. released the gas and punched down on the brake pedal, putting his head into the steering column as the Beamer screeched to a halt. "Give it gas! Punch it!" the Panders ordered again, practically before they had come to a stop.

"This would be so much easier if you'd get the hell off of me!" Erica shouted, her chin digging into K.T.'s shoulder as she tried to turn to the front of the car.

"Fine, you steer, chica!" Cordoba shouted. K.T. realized suddenly that they were heading backwards, although he had no idea why. Cordoba, back in the passenger seat, was now blazing away with his MAC-10 in one hand and one of his Glocks in the other at something in front of them. In a heartbeat the Panders tossed the Glock to one side and switched magazines in his machinegun, then he was shooting again.

"What the hell is going on?" K.T. asked, trying to keep from bumping into Erica as she fought to keep the Beamer under control.

"Hold us still!" Cordoba shouted at her, cutting off any reply Erica might have had for the Gangrel. "Jesus, how many gunfights have you been in? You're terrible at this! Hold us still!"

"I'm trying!" Erica shouted, trying to keep the Beamer under control as it raced away in reverse from Graime's motorcycle. The Malkavian was weaving through cars as they crashed around him, only one hand on the handlebars as he continued to blaze away with his Skorpion. Another line of bullets ran up the hod at her, but fortunately died away before anything could hit the Ventrue. Cordoba ran through another magazine and reloaded again, seemingly hitting everything but his intended target. "Would you put him down already?"

"Give me a clean shot!" Cordoba snapped. He let loose again, spraying across the entire street, and finally caught the Malkavian. Graime's motorcycle slid out of control and dumped him to the ground. "Brake! Brake, damnit!" the Panders shouted. K.T. jammed his hand down on the brake pedal just as Erica managed to get a foot in position and stomped down, practically grinding his hand into the pedal.

"I'll do the pedals, you do the steering!" K.T. shouted up at Erica. She simply shrugged apologetically and stopped putting all of her weight down on his hand.

"Hit the gas! Now!" Cordoba ordered, switching magazine yet again. K.T. jammed the gas pedal down again, as the Panders practically leaned out on the hood of the Beamer to get a good shot at Graime before he could dodge out of the way of the oncoming vehicle. The car bounced wildly as it ran the Malkavian down, throwing K.T.'s head into the steering column and dazing him for a moment, but the mercenary kept as much pressure as he could on the gas pedal while he shook off a faint wave of dizziness. K.T. struggled to look over his shoulder and see what was happening, but by that time Cordoba dropped his smoking machinegun on the floor of the car, leaned back, and looked over at the two vampires trying to drive the car at the same time.

"Well," Cordoba started, "that wasn't so hard, was it?"


	5. Sleight of Hands, Part Four

****

XI

"Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"I'll be fine," K.T. said as he followed Cordoba into the Spanish Harlem apartment that he was currently using as a haven. Erica trailed behind the pair, still worried about the phosphorous injury to the mercenary's shoulder. "Both of us have lived through worse so far this week."

"It's just a scratch," Cordoba added, dropping his bag next to the battered couch in the living room and continuing to the bedroom. "So stop worrying about him. He'll be fine."

"Your compassion is touching, Cordoba," Erica commented derisively at the bedroom door. K.T. ignored the pair's argument as he sat down on the couch, carefully reaching into one of his duster pockets to retrieve the list he had stolen from Connor's desk. In the bedroom, the Panders could be heard rummaging through his closets. K.T. concentrated on the paper for a moment, largely ignoring Erica as the Ventrue sat down next to him.

"Fucking grocery lists," the mercenary muttered, thoroughly annoyed. "Just names and numbers. Half these numbers don't even have the right amount of digits for a phone number!"

"Do you know anyone on this list?" Erica asked, looking over his shoulder at the sheet of paper in K.T.'s hands. She nearly put her head on the mercenary's shoulder as she leaned in, but K.T. seemed to sense the move and stood up again, shaking his head in frustration.

"Gabriella DiColazzo," the mercenary tried, throwing out a random name from the list. Erica looked up at him for a moment, slightly hurt, then shook her head and put on a straight face again.

"No, don't know her," the Ventrue answered. Cordoba reappeared from the bedroom, carrying an AK-47 and a Tommy gun.

"We pick a new target?" the Panders inquired. "Who's this DiColazzo?"

"Evidently, no one we know," K.T. answered. "What about… here's one. Isaac Hamilton the Third."

"Ventrue," Erica answered. "Isn't he still out in Long Island or something?"

"I thought it was Westchester," Cordoba said. "Anyway, he's untouchable. We're not getting anywhere near him."

"Big man around town?" K.T. concluded.

"The Ventrue played smart when they tried to hold Manhattan," Cordoba said. "They kept letting the Toreador be prince. The Toreador must have gone through nine or ten princes before we finally kicked them out of the city with emphasis. So Hamilton and his boys remained low key, and out of the line of fire."

"Smart boy," K.T. noted. He held the list out to Cordoba, and the Panders took it after resting his assault rifle against the wall. "Do you know anyone on this list?"

"I assume you mean other than Corveaux," Cordoba guessed, glancing up and down the list.

"Yeah," K.T. confirmed. "Anyone at all?"

"Well, this guy's an asshole," Cordoba started, looking over the sheet. "This guy wants to kill me. And this idiot… nah, I don't know him."

"Let me see," Erica said, getting up from the couch and taking a look at the list over Cordoba's shoulder. "Which one wants to kill you? Jerome?"

"Yeah," Cordoba answered. "He's a dick."

"Who's Jerome?" K.T. asked, hoping that this Jerome might have some answers to the mercenary's questions.

"Jerome Huntley," Erica answered. "He's the Vicar of the Bowery."

"Vicar?" K.T. repeated, unfamiliar with the title.

"Yeah, Vicar," Cordoba echoed. "Nobody would actually accept him as a bishop, so he calls himself Vicar to make himself more important than he really is. I smacked him around a little bit in February, and ever since then he doesn't seem to like me."

"Yeah, smacked around," Erica repeated. "As in, smacked him right into a bonfire and nearly burned him to death during a Fire Dance."

"Hey, I thought he might have used some kind of ritual to protect himself from the fire," Cordoba said. The Panders shrugged as he thought back to his encounter with Jerome. "Turned out he didn't."

"That's an understatement," Erica pointed out. "It took Huntley weeks to recover from those burns."

"Can he help us?" K.T. asked, trying to force the conversation forward before Erica and Cordoba could get sidetracked again. Cordoba shook his head, nearly laughing at the thought.

"Jerome's a small time piece of shit, even in the Bowery," the Panders pointed out. "He's got Loyalist leanings when the situation suits him, he's a hypocritical, brown nosing bastard, and he can't hold a candle to me."

"He must be the most pathetic member of your mongrel bloodline, then" Erica pointed out, a malicious smile coming to her face. Cordoba's nonchalant attitude faded rapidly into quiet anger.

"Don't make me hurt you, little girl," the Panders stated, his voice even and icy.

"Stop acting like children and try to figure out if anyone on this list is someone that can help us," K.T. put in, stepping between the two Sabbat. He turned to Cordoba as he continued. "Do you know anyone else on the list? Who did you call an asshole?"

"Carlos Fernandez," Cordoba replied. "But he's a little out of reach right now."

"Where is he?" K.T. asked.

"Mexico," Cordoba replied simply. "I think he's getting punished by his sire or something. Don't ask me why."

"We know this Julian Enrathi, right?" Erica asked, looking up from the paper. "I've heard that name before."

"Mortal," Cordoba pointed out. "He's got some kind of banking interest over by the Flatiron District. I don't know what they do, because I never heard of them actually doing anything, but they do have money."

"I'm sorry, but are you implying that you know something about anything other than beating up on people?" Erica inquired, a smirk on her face. Cordoba turned a dark look on her.

"Show some respect, before I beat some respect into you," the Panders stated, leaning in over the shorter Ventrue. Erica backed away a half step, but refused to let any fear come to her face.

"Jesus, you two are worse than a pair of little kids!" K.T. pointed out, stepping between the two Sabbat. He shoved each one back slightly, but the mercenary injured himself the most as he irritated the phosphorous wound in his side. Although he did little more than wince in pain, both Cordoba and Erica noticed the look, and diverted their attention to the wounded Gangrel for the moment.

"K.T., are you sure you're alright?" Erica asked, trying to get a better look at the wound.

"If you're gonna die, die now," Cordoba stated, significantly less compassionate than the Ventrue.

"Jesus Christ, Cordoba, at least show a little bit of warmth for once in your life!" Erica snapped. Cordoba glared at the Ventrue, but K.T. spoke up before the Panders could formulate a retort.

"Erica, let's not try to antagonize him any more than you already have tonight," the mercenary pointed out, straightening up again. "I'm fine. It's a bit painful, but I'm fine. Now let's get back to the subject of this Enrathi."

"Enrathi's a dead end," Cordoba stated, his eyes lingering for a second on the Ventrue. "He's mortal."

"So what does that leave us with?" Erica asked, still throwing a cold glance over at the Panders.

"Corveaux," Cordoba replied. "Our prissy little Toreador friend out in Long Island somewhere, currently passing letters to one Connor MacIntyre, who might be Sabbat, Camarilla, or both. Or neither."

"Good job, Cordoba," Erica said, clapping lightly. "Did you figure that out all by yourself, or did K.T. give you some hints?"

"That's funny, kid," the Panders said, cracking a slight smile. He took out one of his Glocks, and walked over to the hallway closet. K.T. leveled a stern warning glare on Erica until the Panders turned and walked back to the couch, screwing a silencer into place on his pistol. "One more comment, _chica_, and I teach you a lesson."

Erica opened her mouth to spit out a retort, but K.T. kicked her in the shin before she could speak. Cordoba smiled slightly, taking the action as proof that the mercenary was on his side for the moment.

"So what's our next move?" the Panders asked. "You want to head out to Long Island?"

"And do what?" K.T. asked. "Drop by Corveaux's place and ask a few questions?"

"Well, yeah," Cordoba answered. "Corveuax's a pussy. If I had my packs with me, we could roll over him without breaking a sweat."

"And why don't you have your packs again?" Erica inquired. Cordoba turned to her, ready to say something, but K.T. cut him off.

"She brings up a valid point," the mercenary said. "A few nights ago, you wanted us dead. Now you're suddenly on our side. Why?"

"Because Peter went bugfuck on me," Cordoba replied. "I took Peter with me when I went to see Graime, that psychotic bastard of an assassin that you've been having problems with. He was the one that told me about the nomadic pack that was a bunch of Camarilla spies. They were assholes, so I believed Graime, since he's pretty on the level, at least for a maniac. But when we went to see him, to find out what was going on, he turned on us, staked Peter, and nearly gunned me down!"

"He nearly gunned you down?" Erica asked, a bit surprised. Even though she hated the Panders, she had to admit that he was an extremely lethal combatant, someone that should have had a good chance at defeating Graime.

"Hey, I had a Glock and a knife, and he had two machine guns," Cordoba pointed out quickly, defending his loss. "So I went back to the Limelight, figured I'd get some guns and some of my boys to burn his building down and finish him off. But Peter somehow beat me back to the Limelight, and when I got there, he accused me of being in with Graime on some kind of plot to take over Peter's pack!"

"Well, are you in with Graime on something?" Erica inquired, completely serious.

"You're fucking hilarious," Cordoba stated coldly, glaring at his younger companion.

"Let's stay with the current problems," K.T. said, regaining the Panders' attention. "What the hell happened to Peter that he turned on you like that? Did he have any reason to act like that?"

"No!" Cordoba replied, quickly and emphatically. "The only thing I can figure is that it was some kind of domination. But I've never seen a Malkavian do that thorough and precise a job. Unless he got MacIntyre to do it, being that the two of them seem to be working together."

"Wow, thank God he was here to figure that one out," Erica said sarcastically. Cordoba turned to her.

"I warned you," he pointed out simply. He lifted the silenced Glock in a heartbeat and shot the Ventrue in the chest. Erica screamed in pain as she nearly doubled over from the shot. Before she could recover from the injury, the Panders put the smoking weapon to her head. "Now the next one goes right through your skull, little girl," the Panders warned. "You ready to show some respect now?"

"What the fuck are you doing?" K.T. demanded, grabbing Cordoba by the front of his shirt and yanking him away from the injured Ventrue. "Were you born this fucking stupid, or did you work at it? Right now, we are all the friends we have in this God forsaken city, and shooting each other is not the way to keep ourselves from getting killed as soon as we walk out that fucking door! You understand me?"

"I am not going to just stand here and let this little _puta_ insult me for the entire night," Cordoba stated, locking eyes with the furious Gangrel. "And I ain't taking shit from you, either. Now you let the fuck go of my shirt, _cabrón_. Or I'll yank the knife that I just put to your chest up through your ribs and jam it into your head through the bottom of your mouth."

K.T. looked down for a second, taking stock of the large blade that Cordoba had drawn from his belt. The tip of the weapon was just poking through the shirt that the mercenary wore, ready to be used in the fashion that the Panders had described. Cordoba noticed the momentary glance down at the blade, and smiled maliciously. He fully expected the mercenary to back out of the situation.

His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, however, when K.T. simply snarled in rage. The mercenary's fingers extended and sharpened into long talons as the Panders tried to stare down the mercenary, shredding into the Panders' shirt and just barely breaking the skin around Cordoba's neck.

"Try," K.T. snarled, his face twisting into a bestial mask of fury. "Go ahead. Give me the reason that I want to pop your fucking head off. My claws are going to rip through you a whole lot fucking faster than that knife is going to cut through me. You see where I'm coming from, _cabrón_?"

Cordoba hesitated for a long moment, judging the truthfulness of the mercenary's words. He was only able to consider the situation for a second, however, when he heard Erica flick off the safety on her own Glock, and felt the barrel of the weapon press against the back of his head.

"Back off," the Ventrue stated, slowly and deliberately. Cordoba growled slightly, but did as he was told. Erica was certainly no threat, and the Panders was positive that he could take K.T., but the both of them at the same time would be a little difficult since Erica was already behind him and ready to fire. As Cordoba lowered his knife, K.T. released what remained of the Pander's shirt.

"Show some respect," Cordoba ordered, turning back to the Ventrue. While he had backed down for the moment to the mercenary, he was not going to listen to Erica's constant taunting.

"You show some respect, dick," Erica countered. K.T. suddenly appeared between the Panders and the Ventrue, and caught Erica completely off guard with a backhanded slap. She tumbled back to the couch, stunned by the attack and holding the side of her face where she had been hit. By the time she recovered from her shock, the mercenary had picked up his Ruger and his duster, and was halfway to the door.

"Where are you going?" Cordoba asked, too surprised by the mercenary's brutal attempts at peacekeeping to be angry with the Gangrel's decision to just storm out of the apartment.

"Out," K.T. replied simply, barely even slowing. "I'm hungry. Maybe you two will either sort out your problems with each other or kill yourselves while I'm gone, but I am too badly injured and too sick of your shit to play referee any more."

"Three blocks up," Cordoba said. K.T. turned back to him.

"What?" the mercenary asked, still furious with his two allies.

"Three blocks up is a bar where you can get some blood," Cordoba clarified. "You need blood, you can get it there."

K.T. nodded, confused by the sudden act of charity from the Panders, then headed for the door.

"K.T., wait," Erica said, finally overcoming her astonishment and jumping off of the couch. The hesitated for only a second, grabbing for her jacket hurriedly, but by the time she had reached the end of the couch the mercenary had slammed the door shut behind him. Erica stood in the middle of the room for a moment, her eyes betraying how hurt she had been by the mercenary's actions. Cordoba chuckled a little as he walked into the kitchen and dropped the magazine out of his silenced Glock.

"What the fuck are you laughing at?" the Ventrue demanded, her voice almost shrill as she nearly screamed at the Panders.

"You," Cordoba replied. "That stupid school girl crush you have on that mercenary is about the funniest thing I've ever seen. Don't blame me for noticing."

"Fuck you, Cordoba!" Erica snapped, her hand dropping to her gun. Cordoba showed off a pair of Glocks and two knives tucked into his belt, shaking his head with a smirk on his face.

"He ain't here to protect you now," the Panders pointed out. "Don't try it."

Erica hesitated for a long moment, furious, embarrassed, and hurt at the same time, then turned and stormed out of the apartment.

_____________________________________________________________________

It had only taken fifteen minutes for K.T. to find the bar that Cordoba had mentioned, knock out an obnoxious Puerto Rican gang member in the bathroom, drink his fill, and return to the streets of northern Manhattan. In that short amount of time, he had tried and failed to bring his seething anger under control. He was stuck in the middle of the Sabbat's base of power in the United States, he was being hunted by the Black Hand, and the only two people he could even think about trusting were ready to tear out each other's throats. To make matters worse, evidence was pointing to a distinct possibility that the Black Hand was also infiltrating the Camarilla, meaning that he could not even turn to the Sabbat's enemies for aid if things got too far out of control. Finally, if all of that had not made his life miserable enough, K.T. found himself rapidly losing his professional edge in his dealings with Erica, something that he was certain would become extremely costly in the near future. He had no idea how things could get any worse, but he was certain that his situation was not going to get any better in the near future. Once again the mercenary tried to force his mind to think logically, to go over his leads and clues for some kind of connecting point, but once again all he could think about was how infuriating his two allies were acting. With no other way to vent his anger, K.T. kicked at an empty beer bottle, sending it into the mouth of an alley. The glass bottle shattered as it hit the dry rotted brick of the wall, but the Gangrel ignored the broken container as he started to cut through the alley on his way back to Cordoba's apartment.

"How are the bullet wounds, K.T.?" someone asked from behind him as the mercenary reached the center of the dark, narrow alley. K.T. whirled around, dropping to one knee as he drew his Ruger and located his newest adversary. The speaker was a man in his middle thirties, his brown hair neatly trimmed and parted to one side. The man's dark brown eyes appraised the mercenary for a long moment as K.T. took aim but did not fire, but there was no hint of fear in the man's eyes. Dressed in an old, neatly maintained brown suit and leaning slightly on a silver pommeled cane, the man exuded an almost pedagogical air about him.

"I'm sure I won't get a straight answer, but who are you?" K.T. asked, still training his Ruger on the man's chest. The newcomer smiled slightly, and took a step forward.

My name is Phillip," the stranger said. "I have no interest in fighting tonight, so you can put that howitzer away."

"I'm more comfortable with it in my hands," K.T. said, refusing to relax even the slightest bit. "How do you know who I am, Phillip?"

"That hardly seems like an intelligent question, K.T.," Phillip said, almost amused with the mercenary. "You've become thoroughly entangled in a situation which you do not understand. The scope of your current problem is beyond even what you think, and I imagine you think your world is about to come crashing to an end."

"It might not be that bad yet," K.T. countered hesitantly, finally standing up. He lowered his gun slightly, but did not holster the weapon and remained tensed to fire if the need arose. Phillip nearly laughed out loud at the mercenary's assessment of his predicament, but managed to keep all but a light chuckle from escaping his lips.

"Don't count on it," the older man said simply. "You've really stepped in it this time."

"What do you want, Philip?" K.T. demanded, rapidly growing tired of the man's banter.

"I want you to leave the city," Phillip replied, growing serious. "There will be severe repercussions to the events that have transpired here over the last week or so. The more distance you put between yourself and this city, the less likely it is that Hassan or Graime will follow you to deliver retribution."

"Less likely?" K.T. repeated. "You want me to leave, but you can't even guarantee me that they'll back off if I do?"

"Graime will probably not back off," Phillip admitted. "Malkavians are notoriously difficult to control. But he is the one that you actually have a chance to defeat. I can make Hassan reconsider. He's the one that you should truly fear. Hassan is a dangerous man, extremely lethal and without remorse. Should he find you, and he will if you remain in New York, you will not be so lucky as you were in the cemetery or at Bonifay's apartment. Take this opportunity and escape while you can."

"What about Erica and Cordoba?" K.T. asked.

"Cordoba cannot be allowed to live," Phillip explained. "He is too powerful and too stubborn. Even if we wanted to keep him alive, which we don't, he will certainly raise too many questions. But I wouldn't think that you would be concerned with him. Most of your conversations with him seem to end with some sort of confrontation bordering on an open gunfight."

"How do you know that?" K.T. asked, although he was certain that he would not get an answer from the stranger. As he finished his question, a large crow flew down into the alley, and landed on the man's shoulder.

"Really, boy, I thought you were Gangrel," Phillip said, almost admonishing the mercenary for another poor query. "I would think that any Gangrel worth his salt would be able to ask a crow to fly a few reconnaissance flights for him."

"That's great," K.T. grumbled. "That's just great. I've been tailed by a bird."

"Remember, always pay attention to your surroundings," Phillip said, a faintly condescending tone to his voice.

"You want Cordoba dead," K.T. pointed out, moving the conversation forward again. "What about Erica?"

"You and I both know that everyone would be better off if she were killed," Phillip replied. "You can try to protect her, but she is half a step away from being hunted by her own sect. She is also dangerously close to falling down a black hole of the Setites' making, and there is little you can do to save her from that. You have to be careful, or she'll end up leading you into that nightmare, too. Give her up, boy. Leave this city behind. As you yourself have pointed out, God has forsaken this place. There is nothing more of worth here. Leave, K.T. Save yourself."

"Why are you trying to help me?" K.T. asked, all too wary of the stranger's motives. Too many people were playing him from too many angles, leaving him suspicious to the point of paranoia. If this Phillip was part of the Black Hand, as K.T. suspected he was, the mercenary could not even begin to understand why the stranger was not trying to kill him.

"Never look a gift horse in the mouth," Phillip stated, neatly evading the question. "For now, let it go at this. The Gangrel are a relatively small clan. Regardless of our political affiliations, we really should try to stick together."

"I'll consider your offer," K.T. said, still thoroughly bewildered by this latest turn of events. "But if you can't promise my safety if I follow your advice, I can't promise you that I'll even bother taking you up on your offer."

"That would be a regrettable decision," Phillip said, examining the pommel of his cane for a moment. He looked up at the mercenary, and nodded. "But, it is your life. Think about just how much you want that life to end before you make your decision."

K.T. stood where he was for a moment, watching as the older man turned and walked out of the alley. After only a few seconds, the mercenary holstered his gun and rushed for the mouth of the alley.

"Wait! Hey, wait!" K.T. shouted, trying to catch up with his clanmate. He reached the mouth of the alley only a moment after Phillip had, but already the man had disappeared somewhere on the street. K.T. glanced up and down the road for a moment, then cursed and punched the crumbling brick façade of the alley wall in frustration. Finally, the mercenary turned and started back to Cordoba's apartment, trying to decide if his situation had gotten better or worse.

____________________________________________________________________

Erica thought she had found the bar that Cordoba had mentioned quickly enough, but by the time she had reached the flimsy, stucco building that housed the establishment, K.T. had seemingly vanished from sight. A quick argument and a little bit of domination had convinced the bouncer at the door to tell her that the mercenary had come into the bar and left almost immediately, but he had no idea where the Gangrel might have gone. Still hurt by K.T.'s actions earlier in the night, the Ventrue nearly tore out the throat of a drunken patron that she cornered in an alley behind the bar, venting her helpless anger on the unfortunate mortal without hesitation or remorse. The alcohol in the man's system did nothing to help her situation, and by the time she began to stumble back to Cordoba's apartment, she was nearly driving herself crazy with her frustration at her predicament in general and her relationship with K.T. in particular. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she never noticed a large, yellow Cadillac low rider pull up along the curb next to her until the passenger side door swung open at her. Surprised by the sudden motion, Erica half stumbled and half jumped backward, drawing her Glock on the vehicle and its driver.

"Miss Blackwell, is dat any way to treat a friend?" Clairvius asked, his mirror shades and smile reflecting the lamplight as he leaned across the front seat to speak to the young Ventrue.

"Clairvius?" Erica asked. "What the hell are you doing up here?"

"What else?" the Jamaican inquired in reply. "I am cruising for pretty young blondes 'o 'ave 'ad far too much to drink." Clairvius hesitated for a moment, then gestured to the Glock in Erica's hands. "You might want to put dat away, as de police do not like people waving dem about."

"Oh," Erica said, tucking the Glock away quickly. She looked slightly embarrassed as she continued "Uh, sorry about that. I'm a little… on edge right now."

"Dat's perfectly alright," Clairvius remarked in a gregarious tone. The Jamaican glanced around for a moment, then returned his attention to the Ventrue. "And where is your Gangrel friend tonight?"

"Fuck him!" Erica suddenly exclaimed, her embarrassment rapidly fading into anger. "He can be such an asshole at times!"

"Somet'ing 'appened between de two of you?" Clairvius surmised, looking slightly concerned. Erica realized her outburst, and the open rage in her face dropped away into a simmering, quiet anger.

"Forget it," the Ventrue grumbled quietly. "Doesn't matter, anyway. You'd probably just take his side."

"Now, now, Erica," Clairvius said, getting out of the car and making his way around the hood to the young Ventrue. Erica watched him approach with suspicion, but did not back away as the Setite reached her. "You can speak to me. I want not'ing more dan to be your friend."

"You want to be my friend?" Erica repeated, skeptical. Clairvius smiled broadly.

"Do you t'ink I would offer just anyone a ride wit' dis car?" the Jamaican said with a broad, sweeping gesture at the low rider. "Come now, Erica. You 'ave spent so long wit' de Sabbat dat you 'ave never seen what we are truly like. All you know is your war against us, and de blasphemies from de Serpents of de Light. Is it any wonder dat our anti-clan, de traitors wit'in your sect, would say not'ing nice of deir parent clan?"

"We fought you long before the Serpents of the Light came to us," Erica pointed out. "We fight for the Father. When Caine returns, he'll remember what we did, and the way you turned your backs on him."

"Turned our backs?" Clairvius echoed, a smile on his face. "Why den, childe, did we not join de Camarilla when dey hunted Sabbat in Europe, nearly driving your ancestors to extinction? Maybe de elders of your sect neglect to mention de deeds of de Followers of Set during dose dark times, when we misled de Camarilla and allowed young Sabbat to escape into de night?"

"You're lying," Erica decided. Despite the conviction in her voice, however, she could not shake the first seeds of doubt, if for no other reason than the fact that the Setites had been the only people in New York that had not tried to kill her in the last two weeks.

"Am I?" Clairvius inquired, seeing the faint glimmer of confusion in the young Ventrue's eyes. Before she could refute his simple question, the Jamaican pushed the conversation aside. "Come now, Erica. It is growing late, and your allies will want to see you safely returned before de 'and can find you. Would you please 'onor me by accepting my offer to take you back to your friends."

"You don't even know where we're staying," Erica pointed out. Clairvius smiled at her, but said nothing. "Do you know?"

"Well, we live in dis neighbor'ood, too," the Setite explained with a broad smile. "Please, Miss Blackwell, accept my invitation. You can tell me what 'appened between you and your Gangrel friend. And I promise not to take 'is side."

Erica hesitated for a long moment, but finally stumbled to the door of the Cadillac and slid into the passenger seat.

____________________________________________________________________

It had been a tough decision, but the voice of reason had eventually won out.

Cordoba sat back on the edge of his couch, his thirst for blood long since sated by his most irritating neighbor. The Panders had originally intended to follow K.T. down to the bar to find a more discreet victim, but Erica's ridiculous tantrums and the mercenary's increasingly belligerent attitude was nothing short of irritating, especially when ripping one of their heads off was not a viable option. As an added bonus, Diego Montero would no longer be trying to contact the police about the "gun wielding lunatic" that lived two doors away from him; the older Puerto Rican's bloodless corpse was now stuffed in a garbage can in the basement, and would likely not be found until well after it reached the dump in Staten Island. Now the Panders could sit and think in peace, idly running over the options that faced his makeshift pack of inconvenience while he sorted through his weapons.

At the present moment, Cordoba's options seemed to be exceedingly few in number. Connor MacIntyre had most likely disappeared into the night after their reconnaissance mission in his downtown office. Even if they could find another one of the lawyer's havens, Cordoba doubted that their opponent would be unprepared for their arrival, and that would make a second attempt to find the lawyer suicidal. The mortal Julian Enrathi also appeared to be a dead end. If they were truly fighting some kind of conspiracy within the Black Hand, a mere mortal would know even less about the situation than the three of them could piece together. The Black Hand was notoriously secretive, and looked down upon mortals even more than the mainstream Sabbat did. While Connor MacIntyre did not fit the standard picture of an agent of the Black Hand, older vampires were extremely adept at hiding their true natures and abilities behind a multitude of misleading fronts. The Black Hand also never lacked for ordinance or money, and MacIntyre's abilities with law and politics might be one source of revenue for the secretive organization. Enrathi might have been a tool of MacIntyre, but it was highly improbable that he was given any kind of privileged information regarding the Hand.

"This sucks," Cordoba stated out loud as he continued to pick through the arsenal that he had accumulated over the years. As he picked up a mini-Uzi from the duffel bag in front of him, he considered his last option, Germaine Corveaux.

Cordoba had run into Corveaux only twice, and on both of those occasions his packs had been tearing Corveaux's Toreador allies to pieces. The Toreador of the Camarilla were, at least as far as the Panders could tell, some of the most ineffectual and useless vampires on the face of the earth, barely even worthy of being called vampires. They could not fight, they tried too hard to think and act like their mortal prey, and they were quite possibly the most shallow creatures in existence. Cordoba did not even remotely like the Toreador of the Sabbat, but compared to their Camarilla counterparts, they were a shining example of the ideal of the vampire.

Cordoba tossed his Uzi back into his duffel, then picked up his Tommy gun. The Thompson machinegun was a personal favorite of his, but he had been getting away from the old weapon recently. Before his sire died and he took over the pack, Cordoba had spent a lot of time coordinating with Peter and his gang of Nosferatu. Most of Peter's pack had been embraced during the twenties, and the Tommy gun had been their weapon of choice. Since those days, the Panders had been taken in by the weapon's mystique and capabilities, and especially by the hundred round drum magazines that had been so popular in the twenties.

Adding the machinegun and a few of the drum magazines to his smaller, far more portable sports bag, Cordoba considered the possibility of taking Germaine in a straight fight. From what he had seen and heard so far, Blackwell's mercenary friend was at least a capable combatant. He had managed to come extremely close to taking down three Tommy gun wielding Nosferatu with nothing more than a revolver, which spoke volumes about his fortitude. He had also managed to negotiate the firefight in the alley behind the Tunnel, escaping with his two junior partners at the time. He was quick and tough, and handled himself well. Blackwell herself was the main problem; even a few gun toting pansies like Corveaux's bodyguards could likely overpower and eliminate the young Ventrue. As Cordoba thought about it, the Panders smiled slightly. It was as good a way as any to get rid of the incompetent, whining little bitch without severing his ties to a useful mercenary. He could hardly wait to get out to Long Island and dump the Ventrue into a barrage of Toreador gunfire.

Finally, Cordoba left the couch and walked back to his closet. He reached up to the top shelf and took out a plain, two foot long black box with brass hinges, and took it back to the coffee table. Slowly the Panders flipped open the lid of the box, and gazed for a moment at the long, menacing knife that rested in the velvet interior. The weapon was a huge, wide bladed knife, its sixteen inch long blade curving inward on its sharp edge. The sinister looking Kukri knife was quite possibly the most effective head taker that the Panders had ever used, a perfect weapon for decapitating the primogen of a Camarilla clan. Cordoba picked up the massive knife with an almost reverent gentleness, allowing the light of the apartment to play off of the blade before he finally sheathed the weapon and belted it to his side.

A half drunk, feminine giggle filtered into the apartment from the hallway outside, catching the Panders' attention as he continued to sort out his arsenal. Cordoba stood slowly, almost positive that he had recognized the intoxicated voice. If Erica was back from the bar and tanked to the gills, she was probably going to want to start another fight with the Panders. Cordoba was just resigning himself to dealing with the Ventrue in a nonlethal manner when he heard a voice speaking in a thick Jamaican accent.

"Are you certain dat you can stand on your own now?" Clairvius inquired from somewhere in the hallway. Cordoba's face lit with rage as he easily identified the voice of one of his most dedicated enemies. The Panders' decision to allow Erica at least one more night to live vanished in his fury, and the former pack leader flicked the safety off of his Tommy gun as he inched towards the door.

"I think I'm fine," Erica said with a drunken laugh. "Really. I can find my way back now."

"Only because you can fall on it from 'ere," Clairvius said. Erica might have been plowed into the ground, but Clairvius was completely sober. "You 'ad better let me get de door for you, before you crash t'rough it."

"I've made my way home drunk before, Clairvius," Erica said, though she was still apparently extremely amused with the situation. "I mean, I went to college and all. Besides, if Cordoba's here, he doesn't like you. No one does."

"We are a truly maligned clan, Miss Blackwell," Clairvius said. "Would dat your friends would be as understanding as you."

Cordoba pounced as the door opened, cutting off any response that Erica might have had for her newfound friend. The Panders grabbed the first person in front of the door as it swung into the apartment, but snared Erica instead of Clairvius as she stumbled between the two men. Cordoba tossed his errant companion aside with a curse and went after Clairvius next, managing to catch the front of his shirt before he could get away. The Panders yanked Clairvius into the apartment with all of his strength, and hurled the Setite into the wall. Clairvius had no time to react as Cordoba jammed his Tommy gun into the man's midsection.

"Cordoba, wait!" Erica screamed, grabbing the barrel of Cordoba's gun. "He's on our side, you fucking moron!"

"Get the fuck off of me!" Cordoba shouted angrily, turning and throwing the Ventrue aside once more. The Panders turned back to finish Clairvius off, but the second that it had taken to shake off the drunken Ventrue was more time than the Setite needed. The Jamaican was already halfway through the door before Cordoba could raise his Tommy gun, and the Panders stopped only a fraction of a second short of letting a wild, useless burst off into the hallway. Furiously the Panders rushed out into the hall, just catching sight of the Setite disappearing into the stairwell at the end of the corridor.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Erica exclaimed, her words still slurring slightly. "That was about the only ally we had in this entire city, you fucking idiot!"

"You led a fucking Setite to my haven, you fucking stupid little bitch!" Cordoba shouted, on the verge of a frenzy. "Those sick bastards are not our allies, you hear me? If you ever, ever lead one of them here or to any of my other havens, I'll kill you right along with them!"

"He already knew where we were, you stupid son of a bitch!" Erica retorted, almost as furious as the Panders. "Jesus Christ, if you'd stop shooting everything in sight maybe we'd be able to get out of this fucking mess!"

"What part of 'they're not our allies' did you not understand, you stupid little _puta_?" Cordoba demanded, grabbing Erica by the front of her shirt.

"Let me the fuck go, asshole!" Erica demanded. Cordoba barely had a chance to open his mouth and reprimand the Ventrue any further before Erica raked her fingernails across his face, drawing four lines of blood along his cheek. Cordoba released the Ventrue in surprise, and touched one of his fingers to the bloody claw marks across his face.

"_No tiene su novio aquí a protegerse hoy_," the Panders stated simply. Before Erica could try to translate his statement, Cordoba slammed his fist into the Ventrue's stomach, doubling her over and putting her in position to catch the far larger vampire's knee in her mouth. Erica was launched backward and into the kitchen, landing flat on her back on the floor. Dazed and reeling from the attack, Erica tried to jump back to her feet, but was pinned to the ground as Cordoba planted one boot on her chest and leveled his Tommy gun at her face.

"I should have stayed out five more minutes," Cordoba heard K.T. say behind him. The Panders turned his head, and found himself staring into the barrel of his ally's Ruger. "Now that you two have worked this out of your system, put the fucking gun down."

"This bitch brought a Setite to my haven," Cordoba growled. "If you two have sold out to the Setites, this alliance is over."

"It's not an alliance I'm thrilled about, but it was preferable to losing my head to some scimitar wielding maniac," K.T. stated. "Now put the Tommy gun away and let the girl up."

"You're dealing with Setites," Cordoba growled. "You two are as bad as MacIntyre."

"God damnit Cordoba, I'm trying to stay alive long enough to get out of this city!" K.T. snapped. "Do you really think we're trying to set up a framework for some long lasting friendship with a couple of snakes? Are you really that dense?"

"She brought a Setite to my haven," Cordoba repeated, still furious with the latest turn of events.

"Don't bring any more Setites to his havens," K.T. said to Erica, though his eyes never left Cordoba.

"Alright, I'm sorry, Jesus Christ," Erica said, disgusted, from her position on the floor.

"Are you happy now?" K.T. inquired, directing the question to Cordoba. The Panders looked at the Ruger for a long moment, judging his chances of surviving the weapon at point blank range.

"As happy as I can be, considering the situation," Cordoba finally replied. He took the Tommy gun away from Erica's face, and slowly removed his boot from the center of her chest. "But we don't deal with the Setites, at all, from here on out. Understand?"

"Erica, you hear that?" K.T. asked, looking to the Ventrue. "They are not our allies. We do not deal with them unless we absolutely, positively, have no other alternative."

"Jesus Christ, K.T., they're giving us help!" Erica shouted, getting to one knee. "I'd rather have them than this gun wielding maniac!"

"Erica, you're drunk," K.T. said. "I'm going to take that as the reason for your lapse of good judgment. No more dealing with the Setites, you understand?"

"Fine, _daddy_," Erica retorted, her anger rolling off of her in waves. Before K.T. could say anything further, the Ventrue stormed past her two companions and disappeared into the bedroom, pausing only long enough to slam the door behind her. Cordoba started after her, to chase her out of his bedroom, but K.T. grabbed him by the arm.

"Let it go," the mercenary stated, implying a warning with the tone of his voice even as he made the request. "She's drunk. Let her sleep it off, and we start fresh tomorrow."

"I 'm not taking this shit from that brat," Cordoba countered, pulling free of the Gangrel's grip.

"Cordoba," K.T. said. The Panders turned and glared back at his ally. "It ain't worth blowing cover this late at night. I'll deal with her."

"You'd better," Cordoba finally relented, his anger clear in his voice. "'Cause if you don't, I will."

"It's a deal," K.T. said. "Now get some sleep."

Cordoba continued to level his harsh, furious gaze on the mercenary for a long moment, but then finally relented and picked out a spot on the kitchen floor to spend the day. With the situation defused for the moment and dawn slowly approaching, K.T. turned and walked into the living room, pausing for a moment as he looked at the heavy drapes covering the windows on the far wall. Slowly the Gangrel walked over to the window, and pushed the curtains aside a few inches.

Outside, the alley behind Cordoba's apartment building was dark and silent. Above the rooftop of the next building, a hint of blue started to push back the night in preparation for the coming dawn. K.T.'s eyes lingered for a moment as he spotted a large crow perched on the fire escape just across the alley. The bird stared at him for a second, then cawed once, somehow giving a mocking tone to its call. Then the crow took flight, disappearing above the apartment building.

"What a fucking disaster," K.T. muttered, turning back to the couch to sleep for the day.

**XII**

It had been a relatively restless day of sleep, and Cordoba found himself waking even earlier than usual. The Panders slowly stood up and looked out of the kitchen into the darkness of his apartment. On the couch in the living room, K.T. was still asleep, one arm hanging off of the sofa and his feet sticking up over the far end. The bedroom door was open, but the room was dark and silent. Cordoba thought that maybe Erica had done something as stupid as leave the apartment to go join her Setite friends, but the light seeping under the bathroom door and the sound of a shower running dashed his hopes almost immediately.

"Fucking early risers," Cordoba grumbled under his breath, walking out into the narrow hall. He stopped for a long moment, then looked around for his trench coat. He located the garment eventually, crumpled on the couch beneath the sleeping mercenary. The Panders hesitated for a moment, deciding if he should try to wrestle the trench coat out from under the Gangrel, then flicked the light on in the living room. K.T. did not so much as wince at the sudden, bright light.

"Hey, wake up," Cordoba said, shaking the Gangrel slightly.

"Go away," K.T. mumbled, still too drowsy to open his eyes.

"Wake up," Cordoba said again, giving the mercenary a more forceful shake.

"Five minutes," K.T. breathed out. Cordoba sighed in disgust, and walked back to the closet in the hall. After looking over his arsenal for a few seconds, the Panders returned to the couch.

"Last warning," the Panders stated.

"Not five minutes," K.T. muttered. Cordoba shrugged, then leaned down and lifted the couch with one hand. K.T. spilled off of the couch in a heap, thumping into the floor and suddenly jumping to his feet. The mercenary fumbled for his Ruger for a brief instant as he tried to wake up, but then fell backward over the low coffee table and crashed to the floor a second time. K.T. scrambled off of the floor a second time, finally calming down as he saw and heard the Panders laughing at the edge of the couch. As the mercenary stalked over to him, Cordoba tried in vain to put on a straight face. "Never fucking do that again," the mercenary warned, his voice a low growl.

"I'm impatient," the Panders stated, still unable to wipe all of the smirk off of his face. "We have things to do tonight, _cabrón_."

"I know," K.T. grumbled, giving up on the Panders. "Where's Erica?"

"Brat's taking a shower," Cordoba replied. "We should get out of here now, before she can catch up with us."

"She has her uses," K.T. stated. "Even if you don't realize that now, we need her."

"Oh yeah?" Cordoba said skeptically. "Why's that?"

"Three targets means fewer bullets for the two of us," K.T. answered. "And she's the only one that has any skill with the discipline of domination. Unless you're holding out on me."

"Oh, right," Cordoba stated, though his tone clearly implied that he had his doubts as to Erica's value to the team. K.T. could see the Panders sizing him up, deciding for himself whether or not the mercenary was emotionally attached to his young companion.

"Believe it or not, there are problems that can't be easily solved by shooting everything in sight," K.T. stated, hoping that he was not getting too defensive about Erica's usefulness.

"Of course," Cordoba said, still unconvinced.

"I can see you're taking that advice to heart," K.T. stated with disgust. The bathroom door finally opened, and Erica walked out into the hall as she dried her hair. Cordoba glared at the Ventrue for a moment, then turned back to K.T.

"So, you ready to check out Corveaux?" the Panders inquired, appearing just a bit too eager to start another firefight.

"What other choice do we have?" K.T. asked in reply, frustrated by his lack of options. "We have no other leads on where MacIntyre might be, except for Hamilton. And you said he's the baddest of the Camarilla out here."

"Yeah, he is," Cordoba said. He shot a final, mean glance at Erica before he continued. "I also don't like the fact that the Setites also know where we are right now."

"Wow, that was fucking subtle," Erica grumbled as she finished drying her hair.

"Look, we have enough problems right now without worrying about the Setites," K.T. put in, trying to head off another argument. "They're more than willing to give us enough room to get ourselves killed by someone else, so let's just forget about the whole incident last night. Got it?"

"Just as long as she doesn't lead Clairvius to us again," Cordoba stated, pointing at Erica. "She does, and next time I won't stop short of killing her, no matter what you threaten."

"Jesus Christ, Cordoba, you can talk to me instead of threatening me through K.T.," Erica said, holding back most of her anger. "Stop treating me like some fucking child."

"Alright, both of you, cut it out," K.T. said, finding himself playing referee yet again. "Cordoba, where's Corveaux hiding out?"

"Long Island," the Panders replied, still glaring at Erica.

"Oh, good, Long Island," K.T. said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Can you be just a little more specific than that, or are you and Erica just going to try to keep provoking each other into fights tonight?"

"Pinelawn," Cordoba answered, finally turning from the Ventrue. His mood began to brighten as he considered the night's possibilities. "I got the address and everything. Are you ready to go?"

"I've been waiting on you," K.T. said. "Get us some wheels and let's get going."

_____________________________________________________________________

While Pinelawn, Long Island was a far cry from the crowded, dingy apartment buildings and sparsely lit streets of Spanish Harlem, the community was still not quite the type of place that K.T. would have expected to be the home of the most artistic and image conscious clan of the Camarilla. The houses were neat and well maintained, but not blatantly opulent. Professional landscapers had left their mark in impeccably trimmed lawns and orderly rows of shrubs, but the grounds themselves were not overly spacious. Even the streets were not quite perfect; occasional marks of vandalism marred some of the street signs, and one or two potholes had managed to break the even, relatively new blacktop of the roads. As Cordoba pulled their latest mode of transportation, a green Mercedes carjacked from a Manhattan doctor, along the edge of one tree lined avenue, K.T. began to wonder if the Panders really had the right neighborhood.

"That's it," Cordoba said, pointing to one of the larger houses on the opposite side of the street. It was a large, white two story colonial, again something that K.T. would not have expected from the Toreador. "The last refuge of the art fags."

"Are you sure?" K.T. asked, looking from the house to the Panders.

"Yeah," Cordoba said with a nod. "Only reason we haven't come up here yet is because the Ventrue and Tremere probably would have noticed my packs on the move. The last thing I would have needed is to get softened up by the Toreador and then have those two clans drop on me like a ton of bricks."

"Hey, speaking of people getting noticed, don't you think someone is watching us right now from that house?" Erica put in from the back seat.

"We're getting out here," K.T. said, looking back to the Ventrue. He pushed the passenger side door open and got out of the Mercedes, then turned back and helped Erica to her feet as she followed suit. Cordoba leaned across the seat and looked out to the mercenary.

"So you have a plan," the Panders assumed as K.T. turned back to the car door.

"No," the mercenary replied. "Just get rid of the car and come around to the back of this house. We'll be waiting there for you. Try not to take too long."

"You better hope a pair of dumb blondes live here," Cordoba said, gesturing to the house behind the mercenary. K.T. scowled a the Panders, but his obnoxious ally was already pulling away from the curb. 

"What are we doing?" Erica asked as K.T. turned away from the receding Mercedes. The mercenary walked up to her and threw his arm around her, leading her up the front walk toward the house.

"Just act drunk and in love," K.T. replied, pulling the Ventrue close to him and wobbling just the slightest bit. Erica stalled for a moment, confused and almost afraid, but then acted out the role K.T. had described for her. Stumbling along and giggling just loud enough to be heard, the Ventrue allowed her companion to sweep her around the side of the house until they were out of sight of the Toreador haven. Once the pair was out of sight, K.T. released his hold on Erica and slid back to the corner of the building, peering into the darkness for any sign of the Toreador guards that he was certain had to be watching for any signs of an attack. For a moment, the mercenary thought he had felt Erica trembling when he had held her, but he rapidly put the thought out of his mind as he searched the Toreador manse and its grounds for signs of Corveaux's sentries.

"K.T., I…," Erica started, uncertain what to say.

"You're the one with heightened senses," K.T. cut in as the Ventrue trailed off. He spoke a bit more harshly than he had intended, but he made no attempt to apologize for his curt demeanor. He needed to have his wits about him, and could not afford any distractions. For that matter, Erica also needed to have her head in the game, and that would never happen if the Gangrel allowed the conversation to continue. "Get over here and see if you can spot any of Corveaux's men."

K.T. glanced back to see the Ventrue wince at his curt order, but he could not do anything about it now. To her credit, Erica once more put on a straight face and went to work, squinting her eyes slightly as she peered across the street and through the thin veil of skeletal branches of the street trees.

"One on the roof," the Ventrue started, "looking this way. I think there's one at the window, but I can't tell if it was just someone walking by. But that's all I see. You don't think he has that few guards, do you?"

"He might, if Cordoba's right about how many times the Toreador got hit," K.T. answered. "He might simply be out of childer."

"So, what do we do now?" Erica asked, turning back to the mercenary. K.T. was about to respond when he heard someone coming through the yard behind them. K.T. and Erica both turned on the sound, and saw Cordoba making his way along the fence to join the pair.

"Ready to go bust some heads?" the Panders inquired, looking across the street at the Toreador house.

"How many do you think they have in there?" K.T. asked. "We only picked out two guards."

"They're pretty beat up," Cordoba informed the pair, still watching the house. "I'd say, no more than four or five vampires, and maybe a few ghouls. I would seriously doubt that they're any good in a fight."

"I know they're Toreador, but let's not write them off as a threat just yet," K.T. said, knowing full well that the Toreador were not a completely helpless clan. While the Camarilla Toreador were largely political and influential in scope, the Gangrel had run across more than a few of the clan that made deadly use of their bloodline's predisposition to the discipline of celerity.

"Of course," Cordoba said, though he sounded far from convinced. He appraised the haven for another minute, then turned back to the mercenary. "I wish I had a few more people to put some cover fire down on the front. It'd make it a lot easier to get in through the back."

"Bad approach on the front lawn," K.T. stated, his eyes on the wide expanse of grass from the sidewalk to the door. "Hedge row on the side might be useful."

"If they got windows on the side, we're in," Cordoba agreed. "If not, we can at least get to the walls and sneak up to the front door."

"Alright," K.T. said, already starting to think through a plan. "Erica, give us a couple of minutes to get into position, then go up and knock on the front door."

"Knock on the front door?" Erica asked, astounded. "Why? They'll slaughter me!"

"Hey, I trust you to make up a story to keep yourself alive for a few seconds," K.T. said. "We need someone to get the guards' attention from the side of the house. If nothing else, say Hamilton sent you. They should buy that for a few seconds."

"K.T., I'm not even dressed for the part!" Erica exclaimed, picking at her sweatshirt to accentuate the point.

"They'll hesitate long enough," K.T. assured the Ventrue. "And we won't let them gun you down. Right, Cordoba?"

"Of course," Cordoba said with a smirk. "They try anything, we'll rip them apart."

"Oh, great," Erica said, turning a thoroughly unconvinced look on Cordoba.

"Let's go, Cordoba," K.T. said, starting up the side of the house. He looked back to Erica. "Remember, give us a minute or two, and then head up there."

K.T. disappeared around the side of the house quickly, and Cordoba started to follow. At the corner of the foundation, the Panders turned back, and gave the Ventrue a wicked smile.

"Sitting duck," Cordoba stated. Before Erica could say anything, the former pack leader vanished after the mercenary.

Erica waited impatiently for another two minutes, trying to get a glimpse of K.T. or Cordoba as her two allies made their way stealthily to the hedge row on the side of Corveaux's house. The Ventrue watched nervously as she thought she saw the pair slip through the shrubs and edge up to the house, hoping that Cordoba was not planning on killing her during the impending fight. The Panders was certainly unhappy with her mere presence, but his final comment made her wonder how far he would go to remove her from the group. Erica tried not to think of the Panders' threat as she steeled her will and quickly set out to cross the street to Corveaux's front door.

As she walked up the cobbled path to the house, Erica took one last look around her for K.T. or Cordoba, but even her auspex heightened senses could find no trace of either vampire. The young Ventrue hesitated for a moment at the last pair of steps to the door, praying that Cordoba had not convinced K.T. to let the Toreador guards gun her down before taking any actions against them. Finally, summoning up her resolve, she stepped up to the door and reached for the doorbell.

She never had a chance to press the button, however, as the front door opened halfway and a powerful hand grabbed her wrist. Before she could yell for help, the Toreador behind the door had dragged her into the foyer and slammed the door shut behind her. A second guard rushed down the staircase that led up to the second floor, quickly leveling an Uzi on her before she could make any move to free herself from the first guard's grasp.

"Hey, come on, don't shoot the messenger!" Erica exclaimed, trying to make her two adversaries relax. Neither one dropped their guard even the slightest bit as she was forced up against the wall. "Take it easy!"

"Who are you?" the man with the Uzi demanded shortly. His companion quickly patted the Ventrue down as he spoke, quickly finding and confiscating the Ventrue's Glock. Erica turned back on the gunman, far more confident now that she was unarmed.

"I'm one of Hamilton's people," Erica replied, trying to act as indignant as possible. She could only hope that she was convincing enough to stall the two guards until K.T. and Cordoba could find her. "He sent me over here to give a message to Germaine."

"What message is that?" the man with the gun asked, taking a step closer to her.

"I'm… only supposed to tell Germaine," Erica replied. "Mister Hamilton gave me express orders not to divulge any information to anyone other than the primogen"

"And how am I supposed to know that you're not an assassin?" the gunman asked, poking her in the chest with the barrel of the Uzi. Erica racked her brains for a reasonable answer, but never had to come up with one as she saw movement explode from behind the two guards. K.T. and Cordoba were suddenly in the foyer with the two of them, putting their guns to the backs of the two Toreador's heads.

"Trust me, she's not an assassin," Cordoba said as he took the Toreador's Uzi away. "She'd be lucky to hit the broad side of a barn with a gun."

"Bite me, dick," Erica said to Cordoba as she retrieved her Glock from the guard. She took the man's Uzi as well, then jabbed him in the gut with the barrel. "Now, like I said, I was looking for your primogen. Where is he?"

"I forgot," the guard replied in a spiteful tone.

"Well, that's good enough for me to go on," Cordoba said. In a single, fluid movement the Panders drew his Kukri knife and lashed out at the guard, taking the Toreador's head off and splattering Erica with blood. K.T. turned an astonished look on the Panders, and was about to reprimand his ally for such a boneheaded action when his own prisoner turned and bolted for the living room just beyond the foyer.

"Sabbat in the house!" the man screamed as K.T. turned and brought his Ruger to bear. Frantically the man raced for safety as the mercenary drew a quick bead. "Everyone get out, there's Sabbat in-"

The Toreador's shout was cut off as K.T.'s first booming shot tore the left side of the man's skull from the rest of his head. As the sentry tumbled to the ground, Cordoba pounced once again, his Kukri knife descending and shearing through his victim's neck and spinal cord.

"Two down," the Panders stated quickly, jumping up from the decapitated sentry and rushing into the house. "Check the second floor, mercenary!"

"Where the fuck are you going?" Erica demanded as she moved to follow the Gangrel. Cordoba gave no reply as he disappeared around one corner. K.T. took a step for the staircase, anger written across his features, but the mercenary dove to one side quickly as two more guards appeared at the top of the stairs and leveled a torrent of fire down into the foyer. Erica sprayed a rapid burst up the staircase as K.T. ducked back behind the wall and took two quick bursts up at the second floor landing. Erica fired off the rest of her magazine, then quickly fell back to the dead guard to retrieve more ammunition. K.T. fired his last four shots around the wall and ducked back to reload, but doubted that he had even come close to hitting his opponents. Erica jammed another magazine into place and rushed forward again, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and letting a wild burst go at the second floor.

"Switch up!" K.T. shouted, waving the Ventrue over. Erica dove across the staircase and took K.T.' s position even as the mercenary ducked back into the foyer, letting one shot loose before he disappeared again into the entryway. Erica was still firing wildly at the second floor, forcing the Toreador to keep their heads down but accomplishing little else. Erica dropped back for cover as the two Toreador flooded the staircase with gunfire again, but K.T. barely noticed as he grew his hands into claws and began to dig into the wall to climb up to the staircase above him.

"K.T., where the hell did you go?" Erica shouted, out of the mercenary's view.

"Drop back to Cordoba!" the mercenary yelled back, hoping that the Ventrue could draw off the two guards. He could hear his companion let a final burst of gunfire loose up the stairs, and the two Toreador rush down the steps a moment later. K.T. gave the two guards a second to get past him, then pulled himself up over the railing and hit his two opponents from behind.

Against a pair of seasoned combatants, his attack would have been far more risky, but the two Toreador on the stairs never realized that K.T. had gotten behind them until it was too late. With his hands already grown into deadly claws, the mercenary ripped through the chest of one guard as he turned and tried to bring his Uzi to bear. While the Toreador were masters of the discipline of celerity, they rarely took the time and effort to strengthen themselves with the discipline of fortitude, and it showed as K.T. punched his talons through the man until the tips of his fingers exploded out of his back. The second guard turned and launched a wild volley at the Gangrel, but K.T. spun his first victim into the gunman's path, taking only a glancing hit as the unfortunate, dying sentry absorbed the large majority of the gunfire. A second burst raked across the staircase from the first floor, hitting the sentry in the back and dropping him to his knees even as stray bullets tore through the air around K.T. and one more thudded into the back of his human shield. Erica rushed up the bottom half of the steps as K.T. shot an angry glance at her for nearly hitting her own ally, then turned and sprinted up the last few stairs on his way to the second floor.

K.T. nearly turned around the corner of the stairs and into a furious rain of lead, but managed to pull himself back out of the line of fire before he could be torn to pieces. At least four more sentries were located on the second floor, all of them well armed and filling the air with bullets. While he was certain that he could eventually outlast the undisciplined sentries and attack when they ran out of ammunition, the mercenary was also painfully aware of the fact that the wild firefight was most likely already being reported by everyone within three miles of Corveaux's house. As Erica reached the top of the staircase, the mercenary turned the corner and fired a pair of wild shots at the unseen defenders in a mad dash forward, diving into a second room after taking only a glancing hit to his shoulder and chest. Erica opened up from the staircase with two Uzis, spraying fire everywhere as she fought to control the recoil on both weapons and put bullets down the hall instead of into the ceiling. The uncontrolled bursts forced K.T. to keep his head down as much as it pinned the Toreador, but they lasted for only a few seconds before the Ventrue ran out of ammunition and the Toreador opened fire once more.

_____________________________________________________________________

Although he could hear the battle raging on the staircase and the second floor, Cordoba paid his allies no heed as he streaked into the kitchen and caught a pair of guards before they could respond to the sudden attack. Without even bothering to use his Tommy gun, the Panders ripped his Kukri knife through one guard's chest as he dove at the second man, freeing his blade and driving it forward just in time to carve a massive gash between two of the sentry's ribs and cleave his heart into two pieces. Without wasting a single motion Cordoba whirled back to the first guard, leaving the Kukri knife in the second man's chest and drawing a serrated combat knife. The badly wounded guard, most likely one of Germaine's last ghouls, crawled backwards as he tried to staunch the blood flowing from the wound in his chest.

"Please, please don't kill me!" the guard gasped. Even as he spoke, he began to reach for the Glock in his shoulder holster. Cordoba dove forward and slammed his knife down into the man's hand, pinning it to the tile floor of the kitchen. The man screamed in pain, but Cordoba dragged him off of the floor and slammed him into the wall.

"You're almost not worth the trouble of killing," Cordoba said with a fanged grin as he loomed over the wounded guard. "Almost," he repeated, then sank his fangs into the man's neck and drained what blood remained in the sentry. Then he tossed the body aside and looked up at the ceiling.

The gunfight on the stairs had moved completely onto the second floor now, by the Panders' reasoning. He could just make out shouting and shooting directly above him, fairly wild bursts with automatic weapons. Since K.T. was using a revolver and Erica could not fire three Uzis, Cordoba decided that the Toreador were indeed directly above him. Casually he removed his Tommy gun from his shoulder, pointed it at the ceiling, considered his shot for a second, and then loosed his entire drum magazine up into the ceiling. Plaster and wood splinters rained down on the Panders as he raked lines of bullets across the ceiling, and he could hear screams of pain and porcelain shatter at one point on the floor above him. The drum magazine finally ran out of bullets, but not before a few drops of blood and water began to leak down through the ruined ceiling. Kicking some shell casings aside and whistling faintly, Cordoba strolled out of the kitchen and headed for the staircase, calmly reloading the Tommy gun as he walked.

____________________________________________________________________

Although he was almost as surprised as the Toreador sentries by Cordoba's sudden burst of fire up through the floor, K.T. was more than ready to take advantage of the unexpected attack. Two of the Toreador broke cover as they were hit by rounds from below, stumbling into view for only a second before the mercenary emptied his revolver into them. One tumbled and fell to the floor as the entire left side of her skull was torn off, while the other doubled over in pain as two more magnum rounds punched through his stomach. Erica rushed forward, letting a wild burst off at the last two guards, then dove into a room on the opposite side of the hallway. K.T. dropped back behind his own cover as the Toreador regrouped and desperately tried to push their attackers back out of the house.

"Erica!" K.T. shouted, seeing the Ventrue reloading in a room almost directly across the wall. Erica looked up quickly. "Through the wall! Shoot through the wall!"

Erica nodded and turned to the wall that she had been resting against only a second before, then emptied her magazine through the obstacle. The Toreador that had been using the room next to Erica as cover was forced into the doorway by the volley, and K.T. instantly picked him off with two more slugs through the chest and head.

"Don't shoot! We surrender!" the last defender shouted, throwing his gun out into the hall and appearing with his hands high over his head. "Please, we give up!"

"Where's Corveaux?" Cordoba demanded as he reached the top of the staircase and turned his machinegun on the young sentry.

"He's not here! He's out!" the young guard answered frantically.

"You're a help," Cordoba grumbled. He cut loose with a short burst that knocked the Toreador to the floor, then rushed in and slammed his Kukri knife down through the young man's throat. As K.T. watched, the Panders tossed the Toreador's head idly aside, then stood up and glanced into the rooms on either side of the hall.

"You missed your chance," K.T. said sarcastically, coming up behind the Panders. "Probably just embraced. You could have started a whole new pack."

"That's barely even funny," Cordoba stated, licking the blood off of his knife and sheathing the weapon. "You think he was telling the truth about the head fag?"

"Beats the shit out of me," K.T. answered as Erica slid by them and started into the room where the last sentry had been hiding. "You were the one that knew this guy well enough to say we could just come out here and whack him."

"Shit!" Erica suddenly exclaimed from inside the room. She cried out in pain even as K.T. and Cordoba turned and rushed into the room. Erica had been stabbed in the shoulder with a stiletto by a young man that had been hiding in the room, but the Ventrue had still been able to wrap her arms around the man's ankles and tackle him to the ground. The sandy haired Toreador turned and kicked Erica in the mouth, loosening her grip enough for him to pull away, but by the time he had escaped Erica's grasp K.T. and Cordoba both had their guns in the man's face.

"Hi Germaine," Cordoba stated, his voice full of malicious delight. "How's life been treating you out on the Island?"

"What do you want from me?" Germaine Corveaux asked, his whiny voice full of fear and indignance. K.T. started to lower his Ruger, skeptical that this man could be the primogen of any clan. Even the Toreador had better leaders than this person. "We left your stupid city! Now leave us alone!"

"We fight for the Father, not territory," Cordoba spat. "Now we have some questions for you. Do a good job answering, and we'll make sure your death doesn't take more than, oh, four or five hours."

"This is Germaine Corveaux?" K.T. asked, looking to Cordoba for verification.

"Yeah, this is," the Panders answered. "Told you they were pretty pathetic."

"Hey pretty boy," Erica stated, brushing past K.T. and holding the Toreador's stiletto. "You dropped something. Let me give it back to you."

"Erica, cut it out!" K.T. ordered, grabbing the Ventrue by the wrist before she could stab Corveaux with the knife.

"I'll cut it out! I'll cut your heart out, you little prick!" Erica shouted. K.T. pushed her back away from the captured primogen. Restrained from attacking the Toreador, Erica simply glared over K.T.'s shoulder at the young man. "Later," she promised in a menacing tone. Cordoba rolled his eyes, then turned back to Corveaux.

"We want to know about someone named Connor MacIntyre," the Panders started. "You know him?"

"He's some kind of lawyer for city hall, right?" Germaine asked meekly, trying to keep an eye on all three of his captors.

"Very good," Cordoba said. "Now what do you know about him?"

"Well, not really," Germaine answered nervously.

"See, that's a wrong answer," Cordoba pointed out. With an almost nonchalant move, the Panders grabbed Corveaux by the hand and chopped down through his wrist. Germaine screamed in pain as he drew the stump of his wrist back to his chest. K.T. rolled his eyes in disgust, and turned away from the scene.

"He's Ventrue!" the Toreador wailed. K.T. turned back to the primogen, surprised that one of his station would give in so quickly to the Panders' interrogation. "He advises the prince, okay? I think he's some kind of advisor to Hamilton!"

"And what about you?" Cordoba continued. "Does he advise you on a lot of things, too?"

"What are you talking about?" Germaine asked, bewildered. Cordoba grabbed the Toreador's other hand, but K.T. caught the Panders' knife hand before he could chop through Germaine's left wrist as well.

"Look here, Corveaux, you have two ways out of this," the mercenary stated, pushing Cordoba back slightly and wedging himself between the two vampires. "I'm not all that keen on torture, but as you might have guessed, my belligerent companion here is. Now you can keep on hesitating and lose a few more body parts, or you can just answer everything the best you can. Just keep in mind that the less you answer, the more he's going to forget why he's torturing you, and just start torturing for fun."

Germaine stared at K.T. for a long moment, trying to gauge the mercenary's honesty.

"That was deep," Cordoba said, stepping up next to K.T. and holding Germaine's severed extremity. "Let's all give him a hand."

"That was an incredibly poor joke," Erica stated derisively. Cordoba simply grinned at her for a moment, then returned his attention to Germaine.

"So," K.T. said, leaning in a bit closer to the Toreador, "what'll it be? Do you help us out, or does he keep on cutting?"

"I'll help you," Germaine said after a long pause. Once again, K.T. was surprised by how quickly the primogen gave in to his relatively simplistic threats. "But on one condition."

"I really don't think you're in any position to be setting terms, Lefty," Cordoba pointed out. Germaine smiled weakly as he blinked a tear of blood from his eye.

"Without me, you know nothing," Germaine observed.

"What's the condition?" K.T. inquired, wanting to move the interrogation along before the police could arrive on the scene. They had another two minutes, tops, and he did not want to spend that time bartering with the Toreador.

"If any of my childer are still alive, you have to let them go," Germaine stated. Cordoba nearly laughed.

"There's no one left in this house to kill!" the Panders exclaimed, laughing. K.T. noticed Erica turn to the closet, but she froze as she heard the condition Germaine set. "I tell you what, Germaine. If we find another Toreador in this house, we'll let them go and come back another night to get them. Unless they shoot at us, of course. Then we'll have to kill them in self defense."

"I have your word?" Germaine asked, looking to K.T. rather than Cordoba. The mercenary shot one last glance to Erica, but the Ventrue was now simply watching her allies, emotionless.

"You have my word," K.T. finally answered. Germaine nodded, seemingly satisfied with the mercenary's word.

"Thank you," Germaine said. He hesitated for one last moment, then began his explanation. "Connor MacIntyre is an advisor to the prince and the primogen of the Ventrue, and he has connections all throughout the city. Why he's not prince himself, I don't know, but I think he might have some ties to the Sabbat."

"What makes you think that?" K.T. inquired.

"Things he knows, places he can get into," Germaine replied. "After all, he always works and lives in the city. I think even the Sabbat would have found him by now. Maybe he's an _antitribu_, and the prince just hasn't figured it out yet."

"So where do you fit in?" Cordoba asked.

"Sometimes he wants me to vote a certain way, and sometimes he asks me to do certain things," Germaine replied. "It was mostly with the museums and art centers until we were kicked out of the city. Now it's typically in dealing with the Sabbat, keeping a low profile until we can regain influence that he already seems to have. None of it seemed to make sense to me, but since it wasn't really hurting anyone I did it. Besides, sometimes he could give me some really useful information, or do a really useful favor. It worked out well."

"What do you know about the Black Hand?" K.T. asked. Germaine looked at him for a moment, seemingly confused.

"Why are you asking me?" he said. "The Black Hand is the Sabbat, isn't it? Aren't you guys Sabbat?"

"This guy was a help," Erica remarked sarcastically.

"A fucking waste of time," Cordoba agreed. Then he turned back to Germaine. "Do you have any last words of wisdom for us?"

"Choke on it," Germaine spat. Cordoba smiled slightly, then swung his Kukri knife in a devastating arc. The Toreador did not even flinch as the razor sharp blade cleanly decapitated him. As Corveaux's body slumped to the ground next to his severed head, the Panders turned back to K.T.

"You have any bright ideas now, Sherlock?" Cordoba asked, folding his arms across his chest. The faint sounds of sirens approaching the house could already be heard. Cordoba seemed to notice as well, and glanced to the window. "Huh. I thought they'd take at least another minute or two."

"Time to go?" Erica prompted, already starting to the bedroom door.

"Time to go," K.T. agreed. "I don't think we're going to find anything else here."

"So now what the hell do we do?" Erica asked as she left the bedroom. "Go to Hamilton's place or something?"

"Oh, sure," Cordoba said, following the Ventrue out. "'Excuse me, Mister Ventrue prince of Long Island, do you know anything about this guy Connor MacIntyre that we're trying to kill?' Yeah, that'll go over real well."

K.T. let his two companions leave the room, then glanced back to the closet one last time. Slowly he walked to the half open wardrobe, and after a long moment pushed a few jackets and dresses aside with the barrel of his Ruger.

Huddled in the corner, a young, pretty blonde backed away from the mercenary, tears of blood streaking her face as she held a Glock in front of her in her shaking hands. K.T. locked eyes with the girl for a moment, then lowered the Ruger.

"I ain't going to kill you," the mercenary stated flatly. "Even if it would be the merciful thing to do."

"You killed them all," the young Toreador said, pain and anger fighting for control of her voice.

"It's a war," K.T. pointed out. Then he turned deliberately and walked away, listening for the sound of the girl raising her Glock to fire.

All he heard as he left the room was the girl's sobs over the loss of her clan.


	6. Sleight of Hands, Part Five

**XIII**

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Cheer up, beastie boy," Cordoba said with a grin as he followed K.T. back into his haven in Spanish Harlem. "At least we got to take a few minutes off to do something that we really enjoy, namely, beating up on the most pathetic vampires in existence."

"That got us absolutely nothing on our current problem, bonehead," K.T. stated, holding his anger in check as he turned back to the Panders. "All that did was throw up a monstrous flag that the Black Hand or whoever the fuck is screwing us over can follow right back to us!"

"Uh, K.T., they haven't had much of a problem finding us as it is," Erica pointed out as she closed the door to the apartment and turned back to her two allies. A hint of her typical condescending tone had returned to her voice as she walked past the two men and dropped down on the couch. "Flag or no flag, they're doing a pretty good job of chasing us around."

"You're really not helping, Erica," K.T. said, trying to keep all of the frustration out of his voice. "That was a waste of time and resources that we might have used better somewhere else."

"Yeah, but it was fun," Cordoba put in as he returned to his closet to find more weapons and ammunition. K.T. turned an angry glare on the Panders.

"So what do we do now?" Erica asked, catching the mercenary's attention before he could think of something suitably nasty to say to his Hispanic ally. K.T. turned back to her, and shrugged his shoulders.

"You're sure Huntley is nothing," the Gangrel tried, returning to what little information he could glean from the sheet of names.

"He's a waste of space," Cordoba assured him, still digging through the closet.

"And this Fernandez guy is in Mexico," KT. continued.

"Yeah, getting spanked by his sire," Cordoba confirmed. "When you're Lasombra, you better not fuck up."

"And Hamilton is untouchable," the mercenary concluded.

"Yeah," Cordoba answered, finally coming out of the closet with another bag full of ammunition.

"What do we have left?" K.T. asked. "This Enrathi guy?"

"He's mortal," Cordoba said again. "At least, I'm pretty sure he is. At any rate, he's a dead end."

"Look, if he's Sabbat, he might be useless, but we've already started to establish that the Black Hand is working across both sects," Erica said. "What if they're working the independents, too? What if Enrathi is a Giovanni or a Ventrue agent? Then he might know something."

"We should've asked Corveaux if Hamilton had this Enrathi guy on his payroll," Cordoba said. Then he shrugged. "Oh well."

"Maybe that last Toreador knew something about him," Erica said. Cordoba looked up in shock as he heard the Ventrue's statement. "But then again, she was probably too young to even know what a ghoul was."

"There was another Toreador?" he exclaimed, furious. "Why didn't you say something, you stupid little _puta_?"

"Because you would've killed her on the spot, you moron!" Erica countered angrily. K.T. opened his mouth to speak, trying to cut off the argument, but Cordoba was already arguing the point with Erica before he could get a word into the conversation.

"And explain to me why this would have been bad!" the Panders shot back. "She was Camarilla! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"We gave our word that we wouldn't kill any more of Germaine's childer tonight!" Erica pointed out angrily. "And if you knew she was there, you would have killed her!"

"Gave our word?" Cordoba repeated, astonished. "What are you, _Canonici_ or something?"

"Yes, I am!" Erica retorted. "You got a problem with that?"

"_Canonici_?" K.T. repeated, unfamiliar with the term.

"Oh, this I should have seen coming," Cordoba said, throwing his hands up in frustration and completely ignoring the Gangrel. His voice took on a mocking falsetto as he began to ridicule Erica and whatever a _Canonici_ might be. "Ooh, we don't want to break the Code of Milan! I cannot tell a lie to another vampire, no matter how worthless and stupid she may be!"

"Fuck you, you mongrel piece of shit!" Erica shouted, standing up.

"Alright, break it up!" K.T. demanded, stepping between the pair before the argument could turn into a fist fight. "Both of you cut it the fuck out!"

"Dick," Erica grumbled, glaring at Cordoba as she reluctantly sat back down. Cordoba simply put on a last, mocking look, then folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall. K.T. took a second to make sure that both of the vampires were ready to behave, then tried to figure out where the conversation had left off before it had degraded into another name calling match.

"Okay," the mercenary finally said. "Alright. Now, first of all, what the hell is _Canonici_?"

"_Canonici_ are people who live by their word," Cordoba explained, before Erica could open her mouth. "They never, ever lie, and once you get them to promise to do something, they'll do it. What we have here, mercenary, is a girl who's stuck halfway between being a knight and being a spoiled, rich brat. Talk about your bizarre combinations. Something you could only find among the Loyalists."

"Fuck you," Erica said, though she looked more hurt than angry. K.T. turned a puzzled look on her. "Hey, it beats thinking like a mortal," the Ventrue explained quickly, rapidly growing defensive.

"Right," K.T. said simply, not certain how to react to the girl's unexpected code of ethics. The Gangrel had known that the vampires of the Sabbat intentionally tried to distance themselves from their lost humanity, but he had never actually considered what ethics they ascribed to in order to keep themselves from losing their sanity completely to the Beast. The simple glance at Erica's morality of honor was a revelation to the mercenary, one that he suddenly found chillingly familiar to his own mercenary code of honor. "Second of all," the mercenary pressed, finding himself in the position of forcing the conversation forward once more, "that Toreador girl would have been useless. She was probably embraced within the last month. We're not wasting any more effort on the Toreador, _comprende_?"

"We still should've whacked her," Cordoba stated, though his tone clearly implied that he was willing to drop the argument.

"Okay, we've finally settled all of that," K.T. stated. "We have Hamilton, Huntley, and Enrathi to choose from. Hamilton's out, because he's impossible to get to. Right?"

"Right," Erica agreed. Cordoba simply nodded his head.

"And Huntley's a dead end," the mercenary continued. Cordoba nodded again. "So that leaves us with this Enrathi guy."

"I guess," Erica said, none too thrilled with their last possible source of information.

"Alright," K.T. stated, satisfied. "Tomorrow night, we go deal with this Enrathi."

"Okay, but things are bound to be getting a little hectic starting tomorrow," Erica stated. 

"Yeah, so, we'll stay a little bit low," Cordoba said, leaning back on the couch.

"How about a lot low," Erica suggested. "Enrathi's in midtown, isn't he?"

"What's tomorrow?" K.T. asked, quickly realizing that neither of his allies were going to volunteer any information.

"October thirtieth," Erica answered, as though the date explained everything.

"And why is this significant?" K.T. inquired.

"It's the day before Halloween," Cordoba answered. "Every pack in the city will be out looking for contributions to the _Palla Grande_ Blood Feast. It's the biggest one of the year."

"Pretend for just a moment that I'm not a part of the Sabbat, and don't know what a _Palla Grande_ is," K.T. said, growing more and more impatient with his allies.

"Hey, if you're not Sabbat, you shouldn't know," Cordoba said with a smirk. K.T. rolled his eyes in disgust.

"The _Palla Grande_ is a festival we celebrate on Halloween," Erica explained. "It's the biggest social event of the Sabbat year. That good enough?"

"Great," K.T. grumbled. "Just wonderful."

"Hey, we're not just sitting around here staring at the walls for two days," Cordoba pointed out. "All we have to do is keep a little quiet and avoid anyone we know."

"You two just said that every pack in the city is going to be out on the streets tomorrow!" K.T. exclaimed. "How can we not wait for two nights? What do you want to do? Go now?"

"Good idea," Cordoba said, standing up from the couch. "You up for another little joy ride, beastie boy?"

"Are you kidding?" K.T. asked, astonished.

"Nope," Cordoba answered, picking up his weapons bag and pulling his coat over his shoulders. "I'll go arrange some transportation. Lock up before you come down."

K.T. simply watched as the Panders walked out of the apartment, then shook his head in disgust.

"Well, you were the one that suggested it," Erica said, looking to the mercenary.

"My side feels like shit," K.T. grumbled. "Fucking phosphorous rounds."

"Do you need some blood?" Erica asked.

"No, I'll live," the mercenary grumbled in reply, not even thinking to ask where the Ventrue could even find any blood. The mercenary gathered up his Ruger and ammunition and started after Cordoba quickly, wanting to get the rest of the night over with before something truly bad happened. "Let's get this over with, before our wonderful companion does something completely boneheaded."

Set on Forty-eighth Street among the midtown banking firms of Manhattan, Julian Enrathi's offices were located inside an imposing glass and steel office building that rose almost seventy stories into the night sky. K.T. stared up at the monstrous structure as he considered his course of action. The last thing the mercenary wanted was to be trapped on the upper floors of the building in another gunfight with police or security, but he had no place else to turn that would offer any more information on his problem.

"More big buildings," Erica stated simply, looking up at the offices as she stood next to K.T. on the sidewalk. The Gangrel simply nodded as his eyes dropped down to the lobby level. "Any ideas?"

"We need to go in through the front," K.T. said. "The guard will know where Enrathi's offices are."

"So I guess that means I have to go talk to him," Erica concluded in a businesslike tone. K.T. nodded again. "Well, wish me luck."

"Try to stay out of sight of any cameras," K.T. said. "If someone else is watching"

"I know," Erica said with a nod. Then she turned and started across the street. K.T. watched her go for a moment, then turned as he noticed Cordoba walking up the street to meet him.

"Where the hell did you park, Harlem?" the mercenary asked as Cordoba came to his side.

"I just wanted him to park the car," the Panders said, shrugging. "Then he had to start asking questions. Why is the steering column torn apart?' Can I see some I.D.?' All he had to do was park the goddamn car."

"Did you kill a parking attendant?" K.T. asked, growing angry again with his allies' total disregard for mortal lives or the attention that multiple murders typically brought about.

"No!" Cordoba exclaimed, acting shocked that the mercenary would even ask such a question. K.T. glared at him for a long moment. "I didn't kill him."

"Wonderful," K.T. grumbled, turning back to watch Erica work over the security guard at the desk.

"I mean, he won't ever walk again, and chances are he'll be a drooling vegetable for much of the rest of his life, but I didn't kill him, in deference to you," Cordoba finished. K.T. took a deep breath, and reminded himself that he could not simply gun the Panders down in the middle of the street. The mercenary looked back to the office building, and let out a faint sigh of relief as he saw the guard slump over in his desk in sleep and Erica turn back to the glass doors with a smile.

"Let's go," K.T. said simply, making his way across Forty-eighth Street. The two vampires made it to the front doors and met with Erica just inside the black tiled, marble paneled lobby of the office building.

"Fortieth and forty-first floors," Erica informed the pair. "Camera to our left and another on the right. Elevators and stairs are both covered by them. I turned off the monitors at the guard post."

"And that turned off the cameras?" K.T. asked.

"I figure," Erica answered with a shrug. She pointed to a camera that was aimed at the elevators. "The little red light on top of that one went off, at any rate."

"So you don't know for sure," K.T. concluded.

"Hey, you want to check the cameras, go right ahead," Erica stated. "Otherwise, we should probably get this over with." 

"Tact," K.T. muttered. He turned as he heard Cordoba pull something out of the wall, and watched for a moment while the Panders ripped one of the security cameras down from its position. "Subtlety. The foundations of the Sabbat."

"Well, that problem's taken care of," Cordoba said, dropping the remains of the camera on the ground in front of the elevator. "Shall we continue?"

"Oh, sure," K.T. answered, throwing up his hands in frustration. Cordoba simply laughed as the elevator doors opened and the three vampires started up to Enrathi's offices.

"So, out of pure curiosity, do we have any idea at all what we're looking for up here?" Erica inquired as the elevator ascended the building.

"You're not actually expecting something on the order of a plan, are you?" Cordoba asked in return, feigning a hint of surprise.

"Something that might give us a clue about who's trying to kill us," K.T. replied. "And speaking of killing, let's try to keep away from massacring any more security guards. We're the three most wanted criminals in this city right now. Let's not up the prices on our heads any more than they already are."

"Now come on," Cordoba said, acting indignant despite the smile on his face. "Didn't I just leave a parking attendant alive just to make you happy?"

"Don't start," K.T. grumbled. He turned back to the doors as the elevator opened on the fortieth floor, revealing a dark lobby with a single ebony table set against the opposite wall. A bronze plaque set into the wall just above the table and its vase of white plastic flowers identified the floor as the offices of the Enrathi Investment Firm, established in 1946. K.T. glanced out of the elevator for a moment, but could not see any cameras monitoring the lobby. To the elevator's right, an empty reception desk guarded the banking group's offices.

"Have we done this before?" Erica asked, glancing out past K.T. to the silent, dark suites.

"This is uncomfortably familiar," K.T. agreed in a low voice.

"Time's wasting," Cordoba pointed out, brushing past his two allies and starting into the offices. K.T. watched him go for a moment, then shook his head and took a deep breath.

"You're really uptight," Erica commented, glancing over to the Gangrel. K.T. simply looked at her for a few seconds, then started onto the floor himself. "Hey, wait for me!" Erica called out, hurrying after the mercenary.

K.T. made his way through the silent halls carefully, watching for any signs of cameras or other security measures in the building. Just as it was with MacIntyre's office, however, Julian Enrathi appeared to have taken not a single precaution against uninvited guests. The lack of countermeasures only made the mercenary even more anxious to find something useful and get out of the office, certain that MacIntyre or his mortal pawn were somehow watching him even as he kept to the shadows of the offices. The Gangrel made his way past blackened meeting rooms and rows of classic office cubicles, praying that his search would come to a quiet, quick end. As he reached the end of one large room, Erica whistled softly across at him. The mercenary turned quickly, and the Ventrue pointed to a pair of black office doors with a name plate bolted to the front. K.T. made his way to her side swiftly, and smiled slightly in relief as he read the name of the office's occupant.

"Finally," he whispered, trying the ornate brass door handle. Predictably, the door was locked, but the simple inconvenience made the mercenary slightly less worried. An unlocked door would have felt too much like a trap.

"I don't think the credit card trick'll work on this one," Erica said quietly, glancing around the office. "What do we do now?"

"Do you have a bobby pin?" K.T. inquired, turning to the Ventrue.

"You're kidding, right?" Erica asked in reply. K.T. shrugged.

"Girls always have one in the movies," the mercenary said. He rooted around in the pockets of his duster for a moment, then sighed in disgust. Finally, he turned and started back into the rows of cubicles. "Hold on a minute."

"I don't think there're any keys for this door in the desks, K.T.," Erica called after the Gangrel, keeping her voice as low as possible.

"What's wrong?" Cordoba asked suddenly, startling the Ventrue. Erica nearly hit the ceiling as she leapt and turned on the Panders, drawing her Glocks and aiming before she recognized her ally. Cordoba, for his part, simply leaned against the wall, and gestured to the door. "That locked?"

"Jesus Christ!" Erica nearly shouted, barely keeping quiet. "You're a fucking idiot, Cordoba! Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"I wasn't sneaking," Cordoba said, looking slightly confused. Then he pointed to the door a second time.

"Yes, it's locked," Erica huffed. "I think K.T.'s trying to find some way to open it."

"I'll take care of that," Cordoba offered. Erica stepped out of the way and waved the Panders to the obstacle.

"Be my guest," the Ventrue stated. Cordoba tried the handle once, then rattled the doors slightly with an appraising shake. Finally, the Panders took one step back and slammed the doors open with a single, thunderous kick. K.T. appeared a heartbeat later, his gun drawn as he nearly sprinted out of a row of cubicles. Cordoba turned back to the mercenary with a smile.

"It's unlocked," the Panders stated.

"Subtle," Erica commented flatly. K.T. simply stood where he was, his face full of disbelief.

"Why do I even bother?" the Gangrel asked, finally staring skyward.

"Come on," Cordoba stated. "Get what you want and let's get out of here. We don't have all day."

K.T. stared at the broken doors for another second, then walked up to the open office. For a moment he stopped in front of Cordoba, and stared up at the large Hispanic.

"You don't have any grasp of subtlety, do you?" the mercenary inquired, his voice even and almost nonchalant. Cordoba shrugged.

"You needed to get in the office," the Panders observed. "Now you can get in the office."

K.T. stared at the Panders for another few seconds, then finally decided that arguing the point would only waste more time. Slowly the mercenary turned away, and looked into the darkened office before him.

Julian Enrathi's private business quarters spread out across a huge corner room, with two walls of darkly tinted glass looking out over the Lower West Side. The banker's exquisite hardwood desk faced that beautiful vista, while several volumes of economic research lined a low bookshelf just to the left of the door. A single potted plant completed the scene, set in the far left corner of the spacious office. K.T.'s eyes searched every corner of the room for some kind of security device, but, as before, nothing appeared to his vision.

"Cordoba, go make yourself useful and make sure no one's taking an elevator up to see us," the Gangrel instructed, hoping to keep the Panders out of the way before he could break anything else.

"No appreciation," Cordoba grumbled, already turning away from the office and heading back to the lobby. Erica watched him go for a moment, then followed the mercenary into Enrathi's suite.

"So, how were you planning to get those doors open?" Erica inquired, following the mercenary to the banker's desk. K.T. held up a pair of paper clips that he had shaped into crude lock picks, most of his attention on the furniture. "No offense, but I'm glad he kicked the door in."

"Thanks for your support," K.T. muttered, trying the desk drawers. Each of them were locked, but the desk, while sturdy, would never stand up to a severe beating. Bracing himself against the foot of the desk, the mercenary tore the top drawer out of the desk.

"So subtlety's out the window?" Erica concluded, watching the Gangrel go to work on the bureau.

"What do you think?" K.T. asked in reply, pointing to the ruined doors.

"Just checking," Erica said, taking the drawer from K.T. as he handed it to her. The Ventrue dumped the contents out on the floor as K.T. tore out another drawer and quickly started to sift through it.

"We got company!" Cordoba suddenly shouted, running back into the office. "I hope you found what you were looking for, because both elevators are on the way up!"

"They're getting faster," Erica commented, turning to K.T. "You find anything?"

"Give me another second," K.T. replied. Quickly the Gangrel tore out the two remaining drawers, scattering the contents across the floor behind the desk in his hurry to remove them. The mercenary dropped to the carpet quickly, throwing papers and pens in every direction, until he finally gathered up everything he could and stuffed them into his duster's pockets. "Okay, let's get the hell out of here," the mercenary decided, hastily making his way out of the office. "Cordoba, you see the stairs anywhere?"

"Left and down the hall," the Panders answered, already following the mercenary. Erica took two steps after her companions, but then remembered the false bottom in MacIntyre's drawers, and turned back to the mess on the office floor. As quickly as possible, the Ventrue simply splintered one drawer after another until a sheaf of papers and a computer disk fell out of one of the shattering drawers. Erica scooped up the evidence in a single motion and hurried out of the office, racing to catch up with her companions. She nearly ran straight into K.T. as he came back around a corner at a dead sprint, but the two barely managed to avoid a collision.

"Come on!" K.T. ordered, grabbing Erica's wrist and dragging her back to the stairs. Cordoba was already half a flight down, barely pausing to wait for his two allies as K.T. and Erica hit the stairs three at a time in their race to reach the ground floor. Cordoba kept the lead in a mad, half controlled descent, his guns in hand as he crashed down the steps.

The Panders nearly slammed into a trio of men coming up the steps suddenly, cutting the three fugitives off at the thirtieth floor. Cordoba and the leader of the new group hit each other shoulder first and bounced back from each other, nearly bowling over their comrades. K.T. drew his Ruger quickly and took a hasty aim on the newcomers even as they drew weapons of their own. For a heartbeat, neither side moved, locked in a tense staredown with their enemies.

"They're breathing," Cordoba observed quickly, shattering the momentary silence. The Panders opened up with his Tommy gun, prompting K.T. and Erica to join the battle before their opponents recovered from their shock. The three mortals stumbled backwards as they were hit by gunfire, but K.T. could see two of them move with supernatural speed to avoid the worst of Cordoba's barrage. Even before they hit the ground, the three normal seeming humans were beginning to heal their wounds as if they were vampires.

"Shit! They're ghouls!" Erica pointed out, taking aim to fire again. The three mortals on the stairs were not vampires, but they had ingested vampire blood, and therefore gained a fraction of their masters' powers. Erica fired four more times into the most grievously wounded ghoul, while Cordoba launched another wild volley down the stairwell. Two of the ghouls dropped, dead, but the third one leapt back down the stairs in a frantic attempt to outdistance the Panders' lethal torrent of gunfire. Both K.T. and Cordoba sprinted down the steps after him, overtaking him after only one flight and slamming him into the wall under their combined weight. Cordoba grabbed the man by the shoulder and hurled him back into the wall as K.T. backed off slightly, jamming the smoking barrel of his Tommy gun into the man's throat.

"Who the fuck are you?" Cordoba demanded, ready to open fire. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm security," the man answered in a strained voice as Erica found her way down to the interrogation. "We were responding to a breach."

"You an Enrathi?" K.T. asked, moving to the man's side. The security guard kept hi s mouth shut. "Come on, answer or you lose your head."

"The other two were Enrathi's," Erica pointed out, handing a pair of wallets over to the Gangrel. Then she turned to the prisoner. "Were they your brothers, big boy?"

"I forgot," the prisoner answered, closing his eyes. Erica reached into his back pocket, and casually removed his wallet.

"Oh, Mark Enrathi," the Ventrue said, holding the wallet up and displaying his driver's license. "Nice picture, by the way. Would you please open your eyes?"

"No," Mark answered.

"Can we hurry this up a bit?" Cordoba inquired, glancing down over the railing to the floors below. "I think we're going to have some more company real soon."

"I'm only going to ask you once, because we're a little pressed for time," K.T. said, moving a little closer to the prisoner. "Where is Julian Enrathi? I have some questions that he might be able to answer."

"I don't know," Mark answered.

"Last warning," Erica commented, putting her gun to Mark's temple. "We won't hurt him if he just talks to us."

"Go to hell, little girl," Mark spat.

"You first," the Ventrue stated. Then she put one round cleanly through the man's head.

"Up here! Gunshots up here!" someone shouted from only a few flights below. Cordoba leaned over the rail and blazed away down the stairwell, loosing the rest of his magazine at their unseen pursuers. K.T. jumped over the dead Enrathi and shoved through the fire door to the thirtieth floor, emerging in another level full of dark offices and cubicles. Erica remained only a step behind him as he made his way halfway across the hall, then stopped and turned back to Cordoba.

"We don't have much time," the Panders reported as he rushed to the Gangrel's side. "Do we shoot our way through them?"

"No," K.T. replied. "We don't know how much firepower they're bringing, and the last time we took on security at least one of them had phosphorous. We need a way out."

"The window," Cordoba replied, looking past the mercenary to the skyline visible through an office window. Erica followed his line of sight for a moment, then turned back to him.

"You can't be serious," the Ventrue stated.

"Grab some extension cords, or cable, or anything!" Cordoba shouted, already tearing the power cord out of a lamp and tying it to another extension cord.. "Get moving!"

"This'll never work!" Erica shouted. "We we can try the elevator shaft again!"

"We already used that trick," K.T. pointed out, tossing another cable over to Cordoba. "Like it or not, we're going out the window."

"We are so dead," Erica said to the Gangrel as he turned and barged into another office. "K.T., do you hear me? We're going to die if we try that!"

"Hey, if you don't want to climb, you can stay here and hold them off for us," Cordoba said, working feverishly on his makeshift climbing line. K.T. tossed another pair of cords to the Panders, and Cordoba quickly started to incorporate them into the rigging. "Otherwise, shut up and help!"

"How much more?" K.T. asked, returning to the window office.

"We're still short," the Panders said, looking over the line.

"By a lot," Erica added. The door to the thirtieth floor slammed open.

"We're going on what we have," K.T. pointed out. "Get moving. I'll cover you for a few seconds."

"I'm moving," Cordoba said, knotting the end of line around a sturdy desk leg. Gunfire erupted in the hall as K.T. leaned out the door and let two rounds off at the approaching security teams. The Panders picked up second desk and hurled it through the window, shattering the pane. "See you at the bottom!" the Panders called out, dropping the line out and beginning his descent. Erica hesitated for a long moment, watching the Panders lower himself on the line. It had fallen short of the bottom by at least five stories.

"K.T., it's too short!" the Ventrue shouted to the Gangrel.

"Get going!" K.T. snapped back, dropping down behind the doorframe and reloading. Erica hesitated for another second, then pulled her Glock.

"K.T., take this!" the Ventrue said, tossing her pistol to the Gangrel. K.T. caught it and nodded his thanks, then returned to his task of holding off the security guards. Finally, Erica rushed to the window and started sliding down the cable, trying to ignore the plugs and wires cutting into her hands as she dropped to the ground. K.T. watched her disappear for a second, then turned back to the gunfight in the hallway.

"I am never, ever, in my whole life, coming back to this fucking city, ever," the mercenary grumbled, snapping the cylinders of his Ruger shut and bracing himself for one last burst. Quickly he spun back out into the hall, blazing away with his Ruger and Erica's Glock. Three men scattered for cover while a fourth took one round in the chest and stumbled back into the stairwell. In a heartbeat the guns were empty, and the mercenary tucked them both into his belt as he rushed for the broken window. More bullets whined off of the doorframe as he grabbed the cable and dove out into the night air, flying out from the building until the cable and the weight of Cordoba and Erica below him drew him back into the building with a jarring hit. The Gangrel held his position for only a second before he loosened his grip and started sliding down the side of the building, rapidly gaining on Erica as the Ventrue tried to hasten her own pace. Cordoba reached the end of the cord and dropped the last five stories to the ground, rolling out of the way just before Erica let go of the line and landed unceremoniously on the pavement. K.T. slid the last few feet to the bottom of the makeshift line, then fell the rest of the way to the ground. The mercenary tried to roll with the landing, but the impact and the distance he had dropped nearly cost him a broken leg as he thudded into the pavement. Even as he tried to regain his bearings and check for any broken limbs, Erica hauled him to his feet by his duster.

"Come on!" the Ventrue ordered, having already recovered from her fall moments before. "We have to get moving now!"

K.T. nodded, still a bit too stunned to say anything else, and allowed Erica to lead him into the city only moments before more police arrived on the scene.

**XIV**

The sun had only barely gone down, but Erica was already awake, quietly making her way around the tiny, run down room that they had secured as a haven for the day in the Bowery after their search of the Enrathi Investment Group. Even during her mortal days, Erica had been an early riser, and her embrace into the Sabbat had done little to change that. The young Ventrue glanced over at K.T. for a moment, asleep under his duster on the floor, then turned on the only light to illuminate the beaten, once beige walls of the small hotel room. The sudden light aroused a sleepy groan from Cordoba, and the Panders rolled over on the room's double bed in an attempt to avoid the light.

"Turn that off," Cordoba grumbled, speaking into the dirty pillow on the bed.

"Time to get up," Erica stated, only half paying attention to the Panders as she slowly started to peruse the documents she had uncovered at Julian Enrathi's office. She sat back in the only chair in the room, trying to figure out something useful from the business documents and figures on the pages. Finally, Cordoba stood up, and stiffly walked over to the Ventrue.

"Does he ever wake up?" the Panders inquired, looking down at K.T.'s covered form on the floor.

"He's not an early riser," Erica said, following Cordoba's gaze.

"Well, why don't you wake up lover boy so that we can do something useful tonight,"  
Cordoba suggested. "I'm hungry."

"I am not lover boy," K.T. grumbled, still hidden by his duster. Cordoba chuckled slightly.

"Of course not," the Panders agreed, though his tone was skeptical at best. "Now wake up. We have things to do."

K.T. slowly sat up, and finally pulled the duster off of his head. Erica smiled down at him for a moment, then returned to the documents in her hands.

"What's that?" the Gangrel inquired, seeing the papers.

"Some stuff I found in Enrathi's desk," the Ventrue replied, a bit of a proud smile coming to her face. "I thought they might be useful, since they were hidden in a secret compartment in one of the drawers."

"So did you find anything important?" K.T. inquired. Erica stared at him for a second, marginally surprised, but then she looked back to the papers.

"I don't know," she finally replied, her pride rapidly deflating into a purely businesslike tone. "I haven't really been able to go through all of them yet."

"Looks like we have some reading to do, then," K.T. said, standing up and looking over the Ventrue's shoulder. He paused for a long moment, debating what he should say next, and then finally nodded. "Good job," he stated simply. Erica turned to him abruptly, her eyes clearly displaying her shock at the simple statement. Cordoba rolled his eyes and let out a disgusted sigh. "But do we even have anything useful?"

"I don't know," Erica finally stammered out. "Do we have a computer somewhere?"

"Gee, let me check," Cordoba said, casting a quick glance around the tiny, battered room. "No, I don't think we got one with this room. I knew I should have checked to see of the executive business suite was open."

"Go fuck yourself, Cordoba," Erica fumed, casting a furious glare at the Panders. Cordoba simply laughed.

"A computer, she asks," the former pack leader said in an amused tone. "We're in the Bowery, and she wants a computer."

"Maybe you have a computer at one of your havens," K.T. pointed out, deflecting yet another argument between his allies. 

"Nope, sorry," Cordoba stated, still amused with the situation. Then he gave his attention back to the Ventrue. "Hey geek, you mean to tell me you don't have a computer in your high priced apartment?"

"You know what? I'm getting really sick of your attitude!" Erica shouted, suddenly jumping up from her seat. She took a step towards the Panders, but K.T. forced her behind him as he stepped between the pair.

"I am getting really tired of separating the two of you, and most of the time it's because you're trying to provoke a fight," K.T. snarled as he stepped to within inches of the Panders' face. "Now I don't like you and you don't like us, but right now we're the only friends we have in this city, and I don't know how many times I've had to remind you of that already." The Gangrel paused, then jabbed Cordoba in the chest with each word as he continued. "Now stop making problems!"

Cordoba glared into K.T.'s face for a long moment, almost daring the Gangrel to take any further action against him, but then the Panders simply laughed.

"Have it your way, beastie boy," the Panders conceded with a monstrous grin. K.T. scowled at his ally for another moment, but finally gave up on the Panders and turned back to Erica. The Ventrue pointedly ignored Cordoba as she continued to scan the papers she had stolen from Enrathi's desk. "Let me know when you two figure something out or decide on a place to get a bite," Cordoba called out, amusement still evident in his voice as he sat back on the bed and clasped his hands behind his head. "Damn, I'm hungry. Killing works up such an appetite."

"We all need blood," K.T. said. "While we're going through this, why don't you see if you can think of someplace to feed before we meet up with some of our admirers."

"One door over," Cordoba said. "No one misses anyone down here. We've got a whole welfare motel of meals to choose from."

"Not that all these murders would draw any suspicion or anything like that," K.T. grumbled.

"You're in New York City, mercenary," Cordoba stated. "You have to do something really, really bad to get noticed down here. I should know. I've been trying for five decades."

"Congratulations," K.T. muttered, not the least bit amused.

"Well, he's pretty much right," Erica commented, looking up from the papers in her hands. "Not only that, but we can't exactly just waltz back into the Tunnel or some other club and hope that no one recognizes us. Who knows how many people are after us right now? Our best bet is next door. I don't even know what's down here."

"Yeah, and the _Palla Grande_ is one night away," Cordoba added. "That means, for those of us that are unfamiliar with the _Palla Grande_, that almost every pack in the city will be out on the streets making their last preparations. We have to stay low, and I'm not really thrilled about running out in the streets this low on blood."

"Well, how bad is the Sabbat down here?" K.T. asked. "I'm surprised anyone would want this neighborhood."

"That's why we pretty much gave it up to the last of the Camarilla Nosferatu and the Setites," Cordoba explained. "We've been kicking the shit out of the Setites down here for a long time, but we can't seem to finish them all off."

"Have you ever done anything other than beat up on Setites?" Erica inquired with obvious disgust, looking up at Cordoba.

"I'd be doing other things if we could get every last one of them," the Panders countered angrily, glaring at the Ventrue. "You'd better watch your step, geek. If you turn to them, I'll put you down like the rabid dog that you are."

"You know, from what I've seen, you're the rabid dog," Erica retorted. "The Setites have been our only friends during this whole mess, unlike someone's packs that are now trying to kill him."

"She's your love slave, mercenary," Cordoba stated evenly, turning to the mercenary. "Talk some sense into her. I don't like the way she's talking."

"I am not a love slave, dickhead!" Erica exclaimed, starting to stand. K.T. pushed her back into her seat, and stepped between the pair again.

"You," he started, pointing to Cordoba, "show a little bit of tact and respect. And you," he continued, turning back to Erica, "remember that you can't trust a snake. Understand?"

"Yup," Cordoba said with a smirk, satisfied.

"Fine," Erica grumbled, concentrating on the papers. Her sullen demeanor was rapidly replaced by curiosity as she continued to read. "Um, Cordoba, do you remember that kidnapping case, with the foster kid? Who was he, Tyrone Williams or something?"

"Something like that, I think," Cordoba answered. "Not that I care. What was that, a month back?"

"Yeah, and everyone was going crazy because they thought the police had a lead on that wacky Malk, Prophet I think his name was," Erica added.

"Yeah," Cordoba agreed. "So?"

"So Tyrone is involved with the Hand," Erica concluded, holding a paper out to her two allies. Cordoba snatched it up quickly, reading its contents as K.T. tried to follow along over his shoulder.

"Coincidence," the Panders finally decided, handing the page to K.T. "There must be a thousand Tyrone Williams in this city."

"They're kidnapping kids," K.T. said, reading through the sheet. Cordoba turned back to him.

"Why would they want to kidnap kids?" the Panders asked. "And foster kids at that. Not like they're worth anything."

"Maybe that's exactly why," Erica said. "Maybe they're using these kids as food or something!"

"Sick bastards," K.T. said, still trying to glean some useful information.

"Yeah, Cordoba agreed. "Not much blood in kids. Better off going for adults."

"Speaking of sick," K.T. commented in a disapproving tone.

"He's, um, right, K.T.," Erica said, a bit hesitant. "I mean, well, they're only cattle. Humans keep cattle in pens, so we should be able to keep humans in pens."

"Jesus," K.T. breathed out, turning away for a moment. While he had distanced himself, at least to an extent, from his humanity and any remorse in killing humans for their blood, Erica and Cordoba's callousness went far beyond anything the mercenary ever even wanted to be capable of thinking. Erica seemed to sense K.T.'s unease, and became even more tentative.

"Well, I mean, we wouldn't, you know, like, abuse them or anything," the Ventrue added, trying to justify her opinion. "You know, it'd be like, well, cattle and all."

"Look, much as I'd love to sit here and watch her try to get back in your good graces, we have other things to worry about than some stupid foster kid," Cordoba put in, saving Erica from any further attempts to defend herself. "We still need to get blood, and this thing doesn't tell us where or when the kids are going to be given to anyone that we may or may not know. It's useless!"

"We need some kind of information," K.T. said. "We know enough to get ourselves killed, and not even remotely enough to give us a hint as to how to save ourselves!"

"Jerry," Erica stated, turning to K.T.

"No more vendettas," K.T. ordered.

"No," Erica said. "Look, the Sabbat might think Jerry's still alive. If they do, then he has to show up to the _Palla Grande_. Everyone has to. And if he does, we know where to find him. And if we find him, we might be able to get him to give us some useful information!"

"Oh sure," Cordoba said. "We'll just walk right into the Marriott, past about four dozen templars and nine or ten bishops, one very badass cardinal, and yank Jerry out by the collar," Cordoba stated sarcastically.

"We can wait until he comes outside, stupid," Erica countered in a deliberate, irritated tone.

"If MacIntyre has ties to the Sabbat, maybe he's _antitribu_," K.T. said, mulling the thought over and largely ignoring the latest confrontation between his two allies. "But that's still a lot of Sabbat in one place, and there's no telling how many of them want to kill us."

"Exactly," Cordoba stated. "As in, bad idea. Very bad."

"We have to find out how many Sabbat are gunning for us," K.T. stated. "Can we find out from anyone?"

"My packs will shoot us if we so much as get near them," Cordoba said.

"Crystal," Erica put in, brightening slightly. "If there's anyone we can talk to, it's her. And she knows all sorts of people around the city. She might even be able to tell us if MacIntyre is part of the Sabbat!"

"This is that Toreador in the Garment District?" Cordoba inquired flatly.

"Yeah," Erica answered, her attention more on K.T. than Cordoba. "We can grab some blood, and then sneak uptown a little to see her."

"We're dead," Cordoba remarked, rolling his eyes in disgust.

"Contrary to what he thinks," Erica started, pointing with an irritated expression to the Panders, "Crystal won't let us down. At the very least, she won't rat us out to anyone that does want to kill us."

"I don't like it, but it's our best bet," K.T. decided. "Now all we need to do is solve the blood shortage problem."

"Like I said, next door," Cordoba said, already walking out of the room. Erica simply shrugged at K.T., and followed the Panders into the hallway.

"And the Sabbat asks why people think they're monsters," the Gangrel grumbled, walking out himself.

__________________________________________________

Cordoba was already pounding on the door by the time K.T. walked out into the hallway. Erica simply leaned against the wall and waited as the Panders continued to bang away on the flimsy wooden door. Finally, a young businessman, his button down shirt opened and his tie flapping loosely around his neck, opened the door. His thoroughly annoyed scowl faded slightly as he looked up at the far larger Cordoba.

"Uh, can I help you?" the man asked, his hand still on the door as he stared up at the newcomer. Cordoba's hand shot forward far too quickly for the man to block, and the Panders lifted him off of the floor by his throat.

"I think you can," Cordoba said with an amiable smile as he carried his victim back into the room. Erica followed him in, catching sight quickly of the young woman lying on the bed. The apparent prostitute reached to her handbag on the nightstand, but Cordoba threw the man aside and intercepted the girl before she could find any weapons. The young man turned to the door, but Erica blocked his path with a vaguely seductive smile.

"Hi," the Ventrue said, running her hand down the front of the man's bare chest. Her victim made a move to rush past her, but K.T.'s appearance in the doorway, Ruger barely visible under his duster, stopped him in his tracks. On the bed behind them, the girl screamed in pain as Cordoba snapped her wrist. "Don't worry," Erica said, regaining the man's attention. "I'm worlds better than that second rate tramp."

"Whatever you want, just take it!" the young man exclaimed, backing away from the Ventrue.

"You mean it?" Erica asked, matching him step for step.

"Anything!" the man repeated. "My wallet, my money, the girl, anything! Just let me go!"

"You are too kind," Erica purred, wrapping her arms around the man's waist and pulling herself closer to him. For a long moment the man watched, confused and frightened, as Erica slowly started to kiss her way down his neck. Finally she sank her teeth into his throat, and her victim's head lolled back in a wave of ecstasy. With Cordoba making similar, though far more brutal, work on the girl, K.T. simply made certain that the door was locked and checked his Ruger over quickly. Finally, Erica released the young man, stepping aside as he slumped to his knees. Slowly K.T. took a step forward, locking gazes with the half conscious, dying man.

"Please, anything," the man gasped, trying to keep from fading into unconsciousness. "Please don't kill me."

"You'll give me the girl?" K.T. asked, kneeling down in front of the man.

"Take her," the businessman confirmed. "Please, just don't kill me."

"Shut up," K.T. said, roughly grabbing the man by the neck and dragging him forward. The Gangrel sank his fangs deep into the man's neck, drinking out what little blood Erica had left in her victim. Almost on reflex, the new blood in K.T.'s system flowed into his arms and chest, healing the extensive damage that he had suffered the previous night. As he dropped the businessman's lifeless body to the ground, Cordoba casually tossed the young prostitute at the mercenary's feet.

"She's just about done, but I left a little for you," the Panders explained with a slight smile. K.T. looked down at the girl, emotionless. She could not have been any older than seventeen, and despite the heavy makeup, she lacked any trace of the hardened look that most seasoned prostitutes acquired shortly into their careers. The girl's light brown eyes turned up to him, pleading silently that he would let her live.

"Please," she whimpered, trying fight off the effects of severe blood loss. K.T. started to kneel, but found himself stopping as his eyes kept focused on her. She was innocent, insofar as any prostitute could be considered innocent. And too many innocents were dead already. The mercenary found himself standing up again, fighting a mental battle over the need for blood and the retention of any kind of ragged morality that he may still possess.

"I'll find something else," the mercenary stated, already turning to the door.

"We don't have time," Cordoba pointed out angrily. "She's mortal, mercenary. A goddamn prey species." K.T. did not stop walking to the door. "And she'll be dead before anyone can help her, jackass!"

"I'll find something else," K.T. repeated, starting to unlock the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Erica's thoroughly confused expression, and a single, odd thought occurred to him. Her eyes looked much the same as the young hooker's eyes. _I've lost it,_ K.T. thought. _I'm losing the edge. I knew this would happen._

The report of a single gunshot tore through the room, startling the mercenary into action. In a heartbeat K.T. whirled and dropped to one knee, drawing his Ruger, but his only target was Cordoba, tucking his Glock away and glaring at the mercenary over the slumping body of the now dead prostitute. Half of the girl's face had been sheared off by the exit wound created by the shot, mercifully denying any last look at the girl's eyes.

"There, she's dead now," Cordoba said simply, almost furious with the Gangrel's uncharacteristically merciful actions. "Now can you finish with your meal?"

K.T. glared at the Panders for a long moment, but could not deny that the girl would no longer need what little blood was left in her body. Carefully the Gangrel rolled her onto her back and sank his fangs into her neck, taking what little vitae remained. Finally, the Gangrel stood up again, and stepped to within an inch of Cordoba's face.

"Never fucking do that again," the mercenary snarled. Cordoba pushed him back almost a foot with a simple motion.

"Get back," the Panders stated evenly. "We don't have time for you to be wishing you were mortal again. So suck it up, wolfie boy."

K.T. glared at the Panders for another second, then finally turned and stalked out of the hotel room. Erica watched him go, wanting to side with the mercenary for the simple reason that she had no desire to ever admit that Cordoba was right. The Ventrue turned back to Cordoba after a moment, and shrugged helplessly.

"You really pick the winners," Cordoba stated, following the mercenary out of the room.

____________________________________________

K.T. made his way up the streets in angry silence, furious with Cordoba for shooting the girl and furious with himself for his sudden lapses in professionalism and his stunning, pathetic displays of humanity. He was walking a thin line with Cordoba at best, and childish displays like sparing a mortal based on the color of her eyes was widening the already extensive rift between him and his only combat capable ally. He had heard Erica say something to him about catching a cab instead of walking the more than forty or fifty blocks to Crystal's fashion shop in the Garment District. Cordoba was content to walk along a few feet behind the mercenary, looking just as angry about K.T.'s ridiculously humane attitude as K.T. was furious with Cordoba's nonchalant killing spree. Erica kept pace between the two irate vampires, trying not to antagonize either one as they made their way north along Bowery Avenue to Third Avenue. Finally settling down and regaining control of his anger, the mercenary stopped and turned back to Erica.

"Cab," he said simply. Cordoba came to a halt just behind the Ventrue.

"Thank God," Erica said, relieved. She turned to the busy traffic on the street, quickly going to work hailing a taxi. Cordoba took a step past her, stopping in front of an electronics store with a number of televisions in the front window.

"Hey, we made the ten o'clock news," the Panders stated simply, turning back to his allies. Erica turned around quickly, missing her opportunity to catch the first taxi to roll by on the avenue. K.T. also looked back to the store, to see a fairly detailed sketch of his face on the television screen. Somehow, he was being touted as some kind of terrorist involved in the deaths of almost a dozen police officers.

"Oh, this is great," Erica said, watching as the report continued to mention how dangerous K.T. was to the general public. Slowly the mercenary turned to Cordoba.

"I think this proves the point I was making about killing everyone we meet," the Gangrel stated simply. "I hope they show your picture, Mister Bundy."

"Now I haven't killed a single coed," Cordoba said. He paused for a moment, then smiled slightly. "Yet."

"Maybe we should keep on walking," Erica suggested, noticing one man take a long look at the news picture before turning to K.T. The mercenary returned the man's curious stare with a scowl for only a second before the mortal turned and hurried off into the night. "Especially since I think he's going to find the nearest police officer."

"I can solve that problem," Cordoba offered, already taking a step after the man and dropping his hand to his Kukri knife.

"No!" K.T. exclaimed, grabbing the Panders' arm. Cordoba nearly laughed.

"Fine, be that way," Cordoba said. "Now, we still have a whole lot of walking to do."

"Yeah, and let's do it in a hurry," Erica suggested, starting up Bowery Avenue.

___________________________________________________

It took almost a full hour to reach the doors of the Modern Woman, but the trip revealed to K.T. just how desperate his situation was growing. The three fugitives lost nearly twenty-five minutes simply trying to evade police cars, and one alley nearly led them into a waiting pack of Sabbat gang bangers intent on picking up some kind of reward for their deaths. By the time they were in front of Crystal's store, K.T. was throwing glances over his shoulder nearly every minute, and even Cordoba was showing visible signs of unease. As Erica got her first good look at her friend's establishment, she stopped and shrank back into the shadows.

"We have serious problems," the Ventrue said, her voice dropping down to a whisper. She pointed to the store quickly, then turned around. K.T. glanced over her shoulder to see four young women standing in the doorway. "Crystal's pack is there. They'll spot the three of us in an instant if we try to walk in."

"You're afraid of a few Toreador?" Cordoba asked derisively.

"No, you idiot!" Erica snapped back. "But I don't want to kill any of them! They're my friends!"

"He doesn't want to kill mortals, you don't want to kill Toreador," Cordoba grumbled. "This is getting ridiculous."

"Is there any way to get her attention?" K.T. asked, ignoring the Panders. "Something that she'll see, but no one else will?"

"We might be able to get in the back and flag her down when she's alone, but the back is always padlocked," Erica replied quietly.

"Why are we worried about padlocks?" K.T. asked, gesturing to Cordoba. "Locks haven't stopped this idiot yet."

"Ooh, that hurts," Cordoba said with a smirk. Erica simply shrugged.

"I guess we could try to break in," the Ventrue conceded. "Come on. We can sneak around the block to the service drive. Come on."

Erica led her two allies across to Fourth Avenue and then started up, finally making her way back to the rear of the Modern Woman. Hidden back in an alley used by delivery trucks, two rusty metal doors that had once been painted green led down into the basement of Crystal's store. True to Erica's word, the doors were chained together through a pair of rings just above the handles. For a long moment K.T. looked at the padlocked cellar doors, then turned back to Cordoba.

"What do you think?" the Gangrel inquired. Cordoba nodded.

"Piece of cake," the Panders replied, walking up to the doors and setting his feet. Carefully he took hold of one of the flimsy door handles, and yanked back on the handle with as much force as he could muster.

K.T. watched, suppressing a chuckle, as Cordoba tore the flimsy handle free of the door and tumbled halfway into the alley, finally landing flat on his back in the middle of the driveway. With as much speed as he could muster, the Panders jumped back to his feet, casting the handle aside and glaring at the Gangrel with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

"That never happened," Cordoba stated simply. K.T. nodded, a smirk on his face, as Erica let out a giggle. "And that goers double for you, _puta_!" Cordoba shouted.

"I know," Erica said, trying to put on a straight face. Her attempt failed miserably, and the Ventrue turned away in a poor attempt to hide her amusement. Cordoba took one step toward her, intending to hit her, when K.T.'s voice stopped him.

"Do you think you can get a little more than just the handle this time?" the Gangrel inquired, gesturing to the doors. Cordoba looked ready to take out his frustration on the Gangrel for a moment, but then turned back to the doors and roughly grabbed the chain. With a single, albeit more controlled tug, the Panders ripped one of the rings off of the door, and pulled the doors open.

"Yeah, I think I can," the Panders huffed, still thoroughly humiliated for the moment. Cordoba turned away from the Gangrel before K.T. could say anything and stormed into the basement. Erica took the moment away from Cordoba to fall against the wall in a fit of laughter, finally letting out her mirth at her ally's expense. K.T. allowed himself a bit of a chuckle, but then grew serious again and started down into the dark cellar.

The basement where they entered was a far cry from Crystal's Sabbat meeting place below the store. The dark basement was only lit by a few sputtering fluorescent lights set at irregular intervals in the ceiling, illuminating row after row of cardboard boxes and racks of garments draped in plastic. The dull gray walls and black tiled floor of the basement seemed to drink in what little light the fluorescent bulbs produced, casting long shadows and creating large blocks of darkness in the storage area. As K.T. reached the bottom step of the rusting metal staircase that led down from the alley, Cordoba turned back to him, Tommy gun in hand.

"We're in," the Panders stated, though he did not sound the least bit enthusiastic. "Now how do we get to Crystal?"

"Why do you always look at me when you want answers?" K.T. asked in reply. "Ask Erica. She's the one that knows Crystal."

"Just follow me," Erica said, brushing past her two allies and making her way along an aisle created by garment racks. K.T. gestured to Cordoba, and the Panders followed along behind her, his eyes still scanning the darkness around them nervously for any signs of a hidden attacker. K.T. threw one last glance over his shoulder at the basement doors, then followed along behind the pair of Sabbat for only a minute before Erica came to another staircase leading up to the surface. The top of the staircase was shrouded in darkness, but the mercenary could hear music playing in the show room just beyond the metal door at the top of the steps. As K.T. and Cordoba waited, Erica inched her way to the top of the steps, and carefully pulled the door open a fraction of an inch. Cordoba turned back to K.T. as they waited, clearly showing his unease with Erica's tactics through the concerned expression on his face. K.T. simply shrugged helplessly in reply, at a loss for any better plan to gain the Toreador's attention.

"Cordoba!" Erica whispered suddenly. The Panders turned to the top of the steps, already lifting his Tommy gun for a quick shot, but Erica shot a warning glare down at him before he could open fire. Quickly she waved him up to the door, and whispered something in his ear. As K.T. advanced two more steps, the Panders nodded, and slid past the Ventrue as Erica backed away from the door. Cordoba suddenly pulled the door open just enough to fit his arm through, and snagged someone inside the show room. The Panders shut the door again quickly, but not before the store's lights illuminated a slim, struggling form gasping for air in the Panders' iron grip. Quickly Cordoba shoved his prisoner into the wall, and held a finger to his mouth in a warning gesture to be silent.

"Crystal, it's me!" Erica said, still keeping her voice low. "Don't worry, it's just me!"

"Erica?" Crystal breathed out, her voice still hoarse from Cordoba's choking grasp. The Panders backed away slightly, but remained tensed to strike again if the Toreador tried to scream. Crystal cast a quick glance around her, then returned her attention to her friend. "What are you doing here?" Crystal demanded. "Do you know how many people are looking for you? I heard you and Cordoba were working with a Camarilla spy or something!"

"Camarilla spy?" Erica repeated. She turned back to K.T., realization dawning, then returned her attention to Crystal. "Jesus Christ, this is bad. Who told you that?"

"Erica, it's all over the place," Crystal answered. "They said you and your pack, except for Jerry, got some assassin to knock over Stokes, and that Cordoba killed Halsey! Everyone's gunning for you three! What did you get yourself into?"

"It's a long story," Erica said. "But you don't believe all that, do you?"

"I don't know what to believe," Crystal replied, casting a sideways glance to Cordoba. "But I know you and your pack would never have worked with him."

"And I sure as hell want nothing to do with her," Cordoba added, hooking a thumb at the Ventrue. Erica shot a quick scowl at the Panders.

"Crystal, look, I don't have time to explain everything right now," Erica started. "But we need your help. We think there's some kind of conspiracy going on inside the Black Hand, one that could threaten the entire power base in the city. Now I know I never said I liked the cardinal or the bishops or anything like that, but I don't know who these people are, and they're threatening our freedom."

"Inside the Black Hand?" Crystal repeated. "Erica, this is crazy! The Hand is trying to take over the Sabbat?"

"I know it all sounds bizarre, but it gets even worse," Erica continued. "We think some of the Black Hand members might be part of the Camarilla, too. We think one is even an advisor to Hamilton out on Long Island!"

"Erica, even if you are right, how could you prove any of this?" Crystal asked. "I mean, you sound like you've been brainwashed by somebody! I'm your friend, and I don't even think you're telling the truth!"

"Crystal, come on, you have to believe me!" Erica pleaded. "You know I'd never lie about something like this! This is really serious!"

"I know you wouldn't lie about this," Crystal said. "It's the only reason why I haven't tried to get the attention of any of my packmates upstairs. But you can't just go around running your mouth off about this. You'll get killed in a heartbeat! And why isn't Jerry part of your conspiracy? He was your pack leader, right?"

"He turned traitor on us," Erica answered, her anger rapidly reappearing on her voice. "I swear to God, I thought I could trust him, but now he did this to us. If I ever find him again, I'm going to torture him until he wishes he was dead."

"But Jerry's not part of the Hand," Crystal pointed out, looking for a flaw in the story. "How could he be involved?"

"The Hand isn't what we think it is, Crystal," Erica explained. "I don't even know if it's just in the Sabbat! We think one guy, Connor MacIntyre, is working both sides, and we can't tell which side he's really on!"

"Look, stop with the questions, because we don't have the answers yet," Cordoba interrupted. "We need to find someone that might have information, and unfortunately, the best person we could come up with for finding contacts is you. So spill, nympho."

"Watch it, mutt," Crystal said, growing indignant with the Panders' demand. "My pack is upstairs."

"It'd be a shame if I had to kill all of them," Cordoba said with a menacing grin. Erica stepped between the two quickly.

"Crystal, please, you have to help us," the Ventrue said. "I don't have anywhere else to go. We need to find someone that might have an idea about what's going on in the Hand, and you know a lot of people in town. Can you think of anyone that we might be able to talk to?"

"Erica, Jerry has already gotten word out that you and Calvin are the traitors, not him," Crystal said. "I don't know if you can talk to anyone. Do you think you can go to Polonia, or maybe one of the bishops?"

"If we're already wanted, how can we go to a bishop, much less Polonia?" Erica countered. "Their templars would kill us before we could open our mouths, not to mention that they hated us to begin with."

"You three have a serious, serious problem," Crystal stated, pointing out the obvious.

"Thankfully, you were here to let us know," Cordoba remarked derisively. K.T. elbowed him in the side, but the Panders barely noticed.

"You said Jerry's not dead right?" Erica asked, ignoring her allies for the moment.

"Yeah," Crystal replied. "He's the one that told everyone about you and your friends here."

"That means he'll have to be at the _Palla Grande_," Erica decided. Crystal nodded in agreement. "And if he's there, maybe we can grab him at some point and pump him for information."

"Did you miss the part where she told us about the Sabbat hunting us down?" Cordoba inquired, turning on the Ventrue.

"We'll get disguises, stupid," Erica retorted. "Or we can wait outside. At any rate, we're not going to go in and advertise ourselves!"

"Guys, voices down," K.T. ordered, pointing to the door. "Remember who's in the store."

"You don't know where Jerry is now, do you?" Erica asked Crystal.

"No," the Toreador replied. "He came by here two days ago, looking for you. That's when he told me what you guys did. Or, were supposed to have done. But since then, he's vanished."

"Do you know some guy named Hassan?" K.T. prompted. Cordoba and Crystal both turned on the Gangrel. 

"Spooky guy, Assamite, kind of dark skin?" Crystal asked in reply.

"That's two thirds of the Assamites in the city," Cordoba said, disgusted. Then he looked to K.T. "Why didn't you tell me you were being chased by some guy named Hassan?"

"Who's Hassan?" K.T. demanded. Erica glanced from Cordoba to Crystal, also unsure as to the significance of the name.

"Hassan al-Khabir is a dominion in the Hand, here in the city," Crystal answered. "The man is a stone cold killer! Even Polonia wouldn't mess with him! You mean to tell me you've seen him?"

"Fought him twice," K.T. confirmed. Crystal's eyes went wide.

"He's the one that chased you out of Bonifay's apartment?" Cordoba asked. K.T. nodded. "No wonder you jumped fifteen floors."

"You guys are in serious trouble," Crystal said again.

"Thank you for pointing that out, again," K.T. stated. "Is there anything at all that you can tell us, or maybe someone that we might be able to trust enough to get some information out of?"

"Maybe Xavier knows something," Crystal said, lost in thought.

"Who's Xavier?" Erica asked, trying to get something out of her friend.

"He's a friend of mine, another Toreador," Crystal replied. "He's with one of the upper midtown packs, but he knows quite a few people. Maybe he can help you somehow."

"And you don't know Connor, right?" Erica asked.

"Connor? No, no Connors," Crystal replied. "Is he that psychotic assassin that was chasing you around?"

"No, he's a lawyer with City Hall or something like that," Erica replied. "Where can I find Xavier?"

"This brute isn't going to strongarm him, is he?" Crystal asked, pointing to Cordoba.

"I can beat the shit out of you for his address," the Panders stated evenly. Crystal hesitated for a moment.

"Tell me, and I'll go see him alone," Erica said. "That way we can avoid any unpleasantries with him."

"Alright," Crystal said. "But promise me you won't let him anywhere near Xavier."

"It's just some art fag, anyway," Cordoba grumbled. "Have it your way. I won't go near him."

"I promise," Erica said, ignoring the Panders. Crystal smiled slightly, and took out a small card. Quickly she scribbled an address down on the back of the paper, then handed it to the Ventrue.

"Is there anyone else you might know?" K.T. asked, already uncomfortable with splitting his small group to speak with different people. Crystal shook her head.

"Well, I know a couple of Assamites and City Gangrel that are part of the Hand, but I don't really know where you could find them," the Toreador answered. "I could let you know where they typically hang out, but then you have to cut through their packs to get to them."

"Any lone wolves that you know of?" K.T. pressed, trying to find something to work with. Crystal gave the mercenary a helpless smile.

"Hassan," the Toreador answered. K.T. sighed in resignation.

"So we're stuck standing around doing nothing while she goes off and meets with the art fag," Cordoba figured.

"I'm sorry I can't be of much more help," Crystal said. She hesitated a moment, then turned to Erica. "Do you want me to see if I can get you into the _Palla Grande_?"

"If you can, get some clothes together and see if you can manage to find a way in," the Ventrue replied before K.T. could put an end to the mere thought of trying to enter a room full of Sabbat vampires. "I don't know if we'll need it, but better to be safe than sorry."

"Okay," Crystal said. "Call me tomorrow night if you need me."

"Crystal, are you down there?" a young man called out, opening the basement door and peering down into the darkness. The three fugitives ducked back out of sight quickly, disappearing into the darkness.

"I'll be up in a minute!" Crystal called up to her friend. The shadowy man at the top of the stairs nodded, and the door closed as second later. Crystal turned back to Erica quickly, breathing a sigh of relief. "Look, you guys get going. I really hope you find your way out of this in one piece."

"Thanks, Crystal," Erica said, giving her friend a kiss on the cheek. "Oh, and your cellar door is busted."

"Thanks a lot, Erica," Crystal called out with a touch of humor as the three fugitives disappeared again through the racks of clothing.

**XV**

"Well, that was a wonderful waste of time."

"We found out who Hassan was," Erica put in, following Cordoba as he climbed the steps leading out of Crystal's basement. "And maybe this Xavier knows something."

"Yeah," Cordoba agreed. "And maybe you'll live through your little private excursion out to wherever the hell he lives. Caine knows we won't be around to help you."

"I'll manage," Erica said coldly to the Panders. She turned back to K.T. as the mercenary climbed out of the cellar. "What are you two going to do while I'm gone?"

"See if I can run down some leads," K.T. answered, searching through his duster for a moment. He came up with a pack of Marlboros, and put one to his lips. "Beats the shit out of me. I can try to find Alex or Brian, and see if they can give me something useful to work with. At the least, Alex might have had some confrontations with MacIntyre before. And maybe the Setites have come up with something, and won't actually lie to me."

"I can deal with the Setites," Erica volunteered, growing slightly brighter at the thought of seeing Clairvius again.

"No," K.T. and Cordoba stated simultaneously, not even bothering to turn to the Ventrue. 

"Fine, be that way," Erica grumbled. K.T. fished around for a pack of matches, finally coming up with the book and striking a flame.

"What about you?" the mercenary inquired of the Panders.

"I have a few Nosferatu I might be able to check with," Cordoba said as K.T. lit his cigarette. "And some Panders up in Harlem and the South Bronx. No promises, though. Why the hell are you smoking?"

"Because I can," K.T. replied irritably. "And because it's cold as fuck and no one can see my breath. Okay?"

"Fine," Cordoba said, growing slightly annoyed himself. "Where do you want to meet up again, if we all survive splitting up like this?"

"Fucked if I know," K.T. said. "You have any more safe houses or private havens?"

"None that aren't compromised," the Panders answered. "But we could probably get away with using Jaime's apartment. Chances are my packs have forgotten about her place, since she's dead."

"Close enough," K.T. said. "We'll only need it for the day, anyway. Where is it?"

"We can meet on the corner of Thirty-eighth and Ninth," Cordoba decided. "That good enough?"

"Yeah, fine," K.T. agreed, taking a long drag off of his cigarette and blowing the smoke into the air over his head. "Be there around four or so?"

"Good enough," Cordoba said. He hesitated for a moment, then pointed to the cigarette in K.T.'s hand and smirked faintly. "Those things cause cancer, you know."

"Oh yeah?" K.T. inquired, feigning mild surprise. Cordoba merely grinned a little more in response, then turned and walked out of the alley. The Gangrel dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out, and finally turned to Erica. The Ventrue shifted uneasily as their eyes met, but then she turned to stare down to the end of the alley.

"Well," Erica said simply, stuffing her hands into her pockets.

"You'll be alright?" K.T. inquired, feeling almost foolish for asking the question. He already had a definite bad feeling about the direction that the upcoming conversation might take, but for some reason he could not force himself out of the alley. Erica, for her part, simply shrugged, looking almost depressed.

"Yeah, I guess," the Ventrue replied, looking back to the mercenary. "I, well, I just kind of wish I had some celerity. You know, for a quick getaway, if I needed to."

"You want me to come with you?" K.T. inquired, a moment too late trying to bite back his own question. He needed his head in the game, and not worried about how some stupid little _antitribu_ was going to get around her own city. He had bigger problems than trying to settle the foundation of some kind of relationship that he most certainly did not need at the present time. _Employers and targets_, the mercenary reminded himself with a stern thought. _Mercenaries only have employers and targets._

"No, I, I'll be alright," Erica said, dropping her eyes to the ground. "I, well, I just wish I had a little celerity, in case I needed to get out of there in a hurry."

"I can't exactly teach it to you right now," K.T. pointed out, starting to grow frustrated. Warning bells were going off in his mind, telling him to get the hell away from the Ventrue, the alley, and especially the conversation, but for some reason the mercenary could not even take a single step away from the source of his problems.

"I know," Erica said with a despondent sigh. She took half a step away, slowly starting for the mouth of the alley, and K.T. nearly breathed a sigh of relief. He was put back on guard again a second later, however, when Erica stopped and kicked at a chunk of loose pavement.

"What?" K.T. asked, although he suddenly realized what the Ventrue was after. _Don't_, the mercenary warned himself. _Don't even go there. Employers and targets_. Erica turned back to him, an almost frightened look in her eyes, but the momentary fear was replaced by a singularly downcast, wounded expression.

"Nothing," the Ventrue said, her voice barely a whisper. She wanted to grab his shoulders and scream at him, just to let him know how she felt. The mercenary's hot and cold streaks were driving her insane, and she needed to know. But even with a faint hint of realization dawning in his eyes, K.T. was still refusing to allow her in. "Alright. I, I guess, I guess I should get going."

"What?" K.T. demanded, losing control in his frustration. _Don't ask the question, bonehead_. "What exactly did you want me to do? Give you my blood?"

Erica froze just as she started to pivot back to the alley mouth. K.T. nearly cursed out loud at himself for not following his own advice. Slowly the Ventrue turned back to him, her frightened expression back in place. _Forty years of professionalism_, the mercenary thought to himself. _Down the fucking drain._

Erica stared at K.T. for a long moment, uncertain how to react. It felt like eternity as K.T. watched her, frozen in place by the mercenary's frustrated demand. Finally, she looked down at the ground again, apparently not seeing what she wanted in K.T.'s eyes or face, and mumbled something to the ground.

"I didn't hear you," K.T. stated. _May as well call her out now_, the mercenary thought, still furious with himself. _After all, you've dropped enough hints_

"Yes!" Erica suddenly shouted, whirling back on the Gangrel. Caught in his own tangle of emotions, K.T. was unprepared for the sudden outburst, and nearly fell backwards. "Jesus Christ, K.T., wasn't it obvious enough? Or do I need to hit you over the head with it to get your attention?"

"Erica, I, I'm sorry," K.T. said, lost for words under the sudden assault. Now he was the one frozen in place, while Erica desperately searched for some kind of reaction. For a second, the two simply stared at each other.

"Forget it," Erica finally said, throwing her hands up in frustration. Her voice began to crack as she continued, turning quickly to avoid showing the tears in her eyes. "I mean, I guess I should've just figured that you weren't going to have much to do with me once we started to unravel this thing. I mean, I should've expected it. Every nice guy turns out to be a traitor or just a Gangrel bum!"

"Erica, look, I" the mercenary faltered, scrambling to figure out some way to salvage the rapidly deteriorating situation. _Walk away_, he told himself. K.T. shoved the voice of reason back into the recesses of his mind.

"No, I don't want to hear it," she interrupted. She turned again and started to the end of the alley. "I know you just kissed me the other night to get me off your back. I know you didn't expect this. It's my fault. I'll just head out to see Xavier now, don't worry about me, maybe I'll find Hassan too and-"

"Erica!" K.T. shouted, making the word an order. The Ventrue whirled back on him, her pain and frustration evident as she fought back tears.

"What?" the Ventrue demanded, trying and failing to sound defiant. K.T. stuffed his hands into his pockets as he took a second to compose himself.

"Come here," the mercenary stated evenly. Erica took one step back to the mercenary. "Closer."

"What?" Erica asked again, although this time her tone was quiet and almost hopeful. K.T. glanced down to the ground for a moment, his typically dour demeanor softening slightly.

"I need all the blood I have," the mercenary explained. He hesitated for a second, fighting off a fresh warning from the back of his mind, then continued. "If I give you a little bit of blood for the purposes of a little celerity, I need to take some back."

"You you mean it?" Erica asked quietly, astonished. K.T. allowed himself a faint smile.

"You act like you weren't expecting it," the Gangrel said.

"Oh, K.T.!" Erica exclaimed, practically leaping into the mercenary's arms. K.T. staggered back a step as he caught the Ventrue, nearly falling to the ground under the force of the impact. For a long moment the two locked together in a passionate kiss, but Erica finally pulled back slightly and drifted down the mercenary's unshaven face to his neck. K.T. felt the girl's lips brush gently across his neck for a moment, but then Erica sank her fangs into his throat.

Immediately K.T. was lost in the ecstasy of the Kiss, tipping his head even farther backward as Erica continued to drink from his neck. The feeling of having his blood taken was indescribably wonderful, but the feeling ended far too quickly as Erica backed away, a trace of blood accenting her lips as she leaned back in K.T.'s arms and offered herself to him. Slowly K.T. slid down her neck, finally biting into her throat just above her shoulder. Erica moaned in pleasure and arched back even farther, but K.T. pulled her upright again and separated from her quickly, becoming conscious once more of their situation and their current exposed location. Erica did not seem to notice the mercenary's anxiety as she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest for a long moment.

"Thank you," the Ventrue breathed out, finally turning her eyes up to K.T.'s face.

"We have things to do," K.T. said, trying to shake off his own enjoyment of the situation and put his problems back into focus. Erica smiled slightly, disregarding the suddenly curt attitude that the Gangrel was attempting to put back into place. "We'd better get moving again, before someone catches up to us here."

"We should," Erica agreed in a dreamy voice. "Thank you, K.T. I love you."

"I know," K.T. said. He paused for a moment, barely able to force out his next sentence in some manner that to him would seem sincere. "I love you too. Now get moving. And keep your mind on the job at hand, okay?"

"I know," Erica said, still unable to shake her broad smile from her face. She turned and started out of the alley, finally disappearing on the street. For a long moment K.T. watched the empty alley mouth, finally putting most recent development in his situation back into perspective.

"Nice job, asshole," K.T. grumbled to himself. "What was that about professionalism?"

"That was the same question I was about to ask," someone commented, startling the mercenary into action. K.T. dropped and whirled, bringing his Ruger up in line with the voice, but hesitated as he saw Phillip leaning on his cane next to one of the alley's dumpsters. Perched on his shoulder, the raven that K.T. had seen spying on them cawed once, its tone once more somehow mocking. "You must have some kind of hearing problem," the older Gangrel stated. "I thought I told you that you should forget about the girl. Imagine my surprise when I came upon this romantic development."

"Are you watching me every minute of every day?" K.T. demanded, furious with the man for catching him in such an uncharacteristic set of circumstances. Phillip smirked, looking to all the world like a smug school teacher dealing with his slowest student.

"Only when you're moving about, boy," the elder Gangrel replied.

"Asshole," K.T. grumbled. Phillip shook his head in disapproval.

"Such language," the man remarked. "Really, I thought it would have been apparent to you by now that you are probably being observed in some manner no matter where you are. Fortunately for you, I am not Hassan. If I was, you would have lost your head with your precious little Erica's fangs still embedded in your throat. At any rate, you would have died happy."

"What the hell is your deal?" K.T. demanded, growing rapidly frustrated with his clanmate. "Everyone else that you're working with wants me dead, but all you seem to want to do is show up and lecture me. Why?"

"Such a temper," Phillip commented. Before K.T. could snap out a reply for him, the elder Gangrel continued. "You have an interesting history, boy, over the last forty plus years. Few of your young age can claim such freedom from their elders, no matter what the anarchs may claim. Let us just say that you could be useful in the future."

"Useful to who?" K.T. asked.

"Useful to whom," Phillip corrected, reinforcing his pedagogical air.

"Whatever," K.T. said. "What makes you think I'd be some kind of willing pawn?"

"I plead the Fifth," Phillip countered with a smile. "I'd like to suggest to you, one last time, to leave New York. Leave this city and your allies of inconvenience. Disappear. Hassan will not follow you. Graime will get bored and go away. But you have to leave now, boy."

"Let me take Erica with me," K.T. said. Phillip shook his head.

"That cannot be allowed," the elder Gangrel stated. "She has a big mouth. You we can trust to be quiet, and most Sabbat that even know of your involvement will likely write it off as the cost of doing business with a mercenary. But you know how the Sabbat despises a traitor, and we need someone to take the heat."

"I can keep her quiet," K.T. said. "We'll head west, to the Anarch Free States or San Francisco. It's been a while since I've seen the coast."

"She is Sabbat," Phillip reminded the mercenary. "She would never fit into those cities. It would only be a mater of time before the two of you are on the run, and if you are to be useful, you cannot be trying to constantly protect a worthless antitribu. Is any of this filtering through that thick skull of yours, boy?"

"Maybe I don't want to be your pawn," K.T. countered. Phillip's smile became slightly more menacing.

"It would be a shame if that head of yours were to be taken from your shoulders," the elder Gangrel stated. He turned and started to walk to the alley mouth, loosely clasping his hands around his cane behind his back. K.T. watched him go, trying to decide if he should try to kill his clanmate, but Phillip acted completely unconcerned with the fact that K.T.'s Ruger was still trained on his back. "Think on my offer, boy. The only way out is my way."

"Who the fuck are you guys?" the mercenary demanded before Phillip reached the street.

"We are leaders of leaders," Phillip replied cryptically. "We are manipulators of deceivers. We are betrayers of traitors."

"What the fuck does that mean?" K.T. shouted. Phillip turned the corner and disappeared. The mercenary raced to the street, trying to catch the elder before he could vanish. "Wait! Hey, wait, you stupid bastard!"

K.T. stopped on the sidewalk and peered down the street in both directions, but Phillip had long since faded into the darkness. With a last curse of frustration, the mercenary set out in search of his Lupine or mage contacts.

______________________________________________

As Erica made her way back from Xavier Miranda's exclusive apartment building set on West Ninety-sixth Street overlooking Riverside Park, the Ventrue tried to think back over her short, friendly, and ultimately useless conversation with Crystal's fellow Toreador _antitribu_. Although Xavier did indeed know of the shadowy Hassan al-Khabir, the handsome young man knew next to nothing that could help Erica find a way to defeat or evade the Black Hand leader until they could somehow prove their case against him. All Xavier had was a beeper number and a cell phone number to contact people that could put him in touch with the apparently reclusive Assamite, and a guess that Hassan might be living somewhere in one of the Middle Eastern sections of Manhattan or the Bronx. Neither did Xavier have any kind of information on Connor MacIntyre or Jason Graime; the Toreador had never even heard their names before she had mentioned them to him. As Erica made her way back towards Columbus Avenue along Ninety-sixth Street, all she could do was shake her head in frustration at the lack of information on the Sabbat's enemies hiding in the Hand.

The Ventrue stopped as she heard the sound of a heavy, thudding bass beat moving up the street towards her, a completely out of place noise in the exclusive neighborhood of elegant apartment buildings and infrequent two and three story homes. Erica started to drop back along the street as she saw a pair of headlights approaching, quickly glancing around for some form of cover on the brightly lit street before the driver of the approaching car could spot her. As Erica's hands dropped to the Glocks tucked into her waistline, she finally got a good look at the bright yellow Cadillac low rider cruising down the street at her, flames adorning the front fenders. Erica relaxed slightly and took a few steps toward the Cadillac, recognizing the distinctive vehicle and the smiling Haitian behind the wheel. Slowly the vehicle came to a halt, and Clairvius rolled down his window with a broad grin.

"'ello dere, Miss Blackwell," the Setite said, leaning over the passenger seat and grinning. Erica couldn't help but smile a little herself as she saw his good humored expression. "Goin' anywhere dat I can give you a ride to?"

"Sure," Erica replied, relieved to not have to walk through Manhattan back to her meeting point with K.T. and Cordoba. Clairvius pushed open the door, and the Ventrue jumped in. "Do you know where I'm going?"

"No, but I'm sure I can find out," Clairvius replied with a grin. "If I ask, I'm sure you'll tell me."

"I might," Erica said, smirking a little herself. Clairvius turned back to the road again as he guided the Cadillac down to the more crowded metropolitan areas. "But I've been told by a lot of people not to trust Setites."

"Oh, I am wounded to de quick!" Clairvius exclaimed dramatically. Erica burst out laughing at his theatrics. "Come on now, don't I act nice enough yet? I forgot to get you roses, but I was in a little 'urry."

"You're nice enough, don't worry," Erica said. "I was just mentioning the somewhat biased opinions of my companions."

"Oh, dey'll get used to us," Clairvius said. "So, ow is de Gangrel doing? You two solve your little problem?"

"Yeah," Erica said, a dreamy smile coming to her face. Clairvius noticed it, and chuckled as he started along Central Park West. The Ventrue turned to him curiously. "What?"

"You sound like e just asked you to marry im," the Setite replied, his grin still in place. Erica laughed.

"Well, not really," the Ventrue replied, though the memories of her last parting with the Gangrel were making it difficult for her to wipe the huge smile off of her face. Finally, she managed to wipe most of the broad grin from her face as Clairvius thought about her last statement.

"Oh, I see," the Setite finally realized. "You and 'e got to know each oder a bit better."

"I guess that's as good a way of putting it as any," Erica said with a bit of a giggle. She looked over at Clairvius, and he smiled back at her.

"I told 'im 'e was missing out on somet'ing good if 'e let you go," the Setite commented. Erica stared at him for a second, stunned.

"When did you tell him that?" the Ventrue asked. Clairvius smiled.

"About four nights ago," Clairvius replied. "When we were on de docks, and you were looking over some of de 'ardware."

"He keeps saying not to trust you guys," Erica said, still surprised at the Gangrel's unlikely course of action.

"Oh, I don't t'ink 'e does trust us," Clairvius said. "And I t'ink I gave 'im one more reason not to trust me. 'e might t'ink I'm moving in on you, when all I see is an opportunity to clear my much maligned name. Jealousy is a powerful t'ing, Miss Blackwell. Of course, if I 'ad met you before 'e 'ad, maybe t'ings would be different."

"Oh, come on," Erica said, though she certainly did not mind the compliment.

"Really," Clairvius said, turning back to the road and giving a slight, almost downcast smile. "I am always just a moment too late." Erica looked over, ready to say something, but the Setite quickly pushed the conversation forward. "What street should I drop you off on?"

"Forty-ninth," Erica answered. "So you think K.T. just wants to make sure you don't get me? I doubt that. Sometimes I get the feeling he just tolerates me. I mean, I don't think that much any more, but still, sometimes he just gets so damn irritable."

"'ow many Gangrel 'ave you known?" Clairvius inquired. 

"Well, not really any," Erica admitted.

"K.T. is fairly social for a Gangrel," Clairvius explained. "Dey distrust every oder sect, clan, and vampire to some degree. To ask a Gangrel what 'e t'inks of anoder clan or vampire is to get de worst of de subject of inquiry."

"Maybe that's why he never trusts you," Erica said thoughtfully. "And Cordoba's just an arrogant bastard. I'd bet he'd whack me and K.T. if he didn't think we were essential to his survival."

"I 'ave no doubt about dat," Clairvius said with a chuckle. "Believe me, after dealing wit' de bloodt'irsty Panders for nearly t'ree decades, I would know. 'ave you found Mister Bonifay yet?"

"No," Erica replied, her voice betraying her frustration at not being able to find the Lasombra. "The bastard must be hiding out somewhere. I don't know if we'll ever be able to find him, and I don't think K.T. is too keen on even trying."

"What if I told you where 'e might be?" Clairvius inquired. "'e may 'ave some useful , since 'e is working for de and."information

"You know where he is?" Erica asked excitedly, turning to him. Clairvius shook his head.

"Not now," he clarified. "But 'e is not dead to de rest of de Sabbat. Derefore, 'e will be showing up at de _Palla Grande_."

"But we'll never be able to get in," Erica said. "Thanks to Jerry, everyone in this town wants us dead! We'd get slaughtered at the doors!"

"We can get you in, if you need it," Clairvius assured her. "And what can dey do in de lobby? I can get an agent into de 'otel, and 'e can meet wit' you somewhere in de 'otel. Den you can figure out where to go from dere. We can even try to grab Bonifay for you, in fact."

"Clairvius, you're wonderful!" Erica exclaimed, leaning over and hugging the Setite. "You can really do all that?"

"Of course, Miss Blackwell," Clairvius said with a grin. 

"Please, the name is Erica," the Ventrue corrected him. "Thank you so much. I can't believe how great you guys are being to us."

Clairvius simply smiled at the compliment, allowing himself a moment to enjoy just how easy it had been to bring the Ventrue over to his side.

_______________________________________________

Although he was far from Harlem on Ninth Avenue and Forty-fifth Street, Cordoba still constantly glanced over his shoulder as he made his way south through Manhattan. Crystal had been right when she had said that the three of them were wanted; the Nosferatu that Cordoba knew in Harlem and the Bronx were already out searching for the three fugitives, and Cordoba's attempt to gather information had turned into a running gunfight along One hundred thirty-fifth Street and Saint Nicholas Avenue. At first Cordoba had chanced the subways coming back to lower Manhattan, but a chance meeting with a pack of Brujah _antitribu_, possibly the most violentvampires on the face of the earth, had convinced him to leave the subway at Ninety-ninth Street and walk the rest of the way south. It was starting to look more and more to Cordoba that his only chance at long term survival would be to leave New York City at the least, and maybe even leave the Sabbat. It was not a choice he even remotely liked, but it was preferable to being gunned down in the streets by his own packs.

"Cordoba?" someone called out behind him, the voice impossibly familiar. The Panders whirled quickly, his hands dropping to his guns, but he froze as he saw Jaime standing only a few yards away on the sidewalk. "Cordoba, it is you!"

"Jaime?" Cordoba asked, astonished by his childe's appearance on the street. He took one step toward the girl, but kept on guard, ready for a trap of some sort.

"It's me, Cordoba!" Jaime exclaimed, rushing to him and throwing her arms around him. "Oh, thank Caine I found you! Thank Caine you're still alive!"

"What happened?" Cordoba asked, pushing Jaime back slightly and holding her at arm's length. "I thought Hector and those bastards killed you!"

"I was knocked into torpor, that's for sure," Jaime explained. "I think they were going to kill me, but Peter didn't let them. And then Barry managed to bring me out of torpor with his blood magic! Cordoba, we're not after you any more!"

"Not after us? How do you know that?" Cordoba asked, suspicious of the girl's motives. Something did not feel quite right, and the Panders was already distrustful of the method in which she had been brought out of torpor. Cordoba had never trusted the Tremere antitribu in general, and Barry had always struck him as being even more shifty than the rest of his tiny anti-clan. Jaime seemed not to notice his concern, and continued on with her story.

"Well, when Barry brought me back, Hector and Peter were arguing in the next room," Jaime replied. "I only caught the second half of the conversation, but it seemed like Peter had somehow gotten his true memories of your meeting with Graime back. Hector was furious. You should have heard him going off on Peter! But in the end, Peter won out. You're cleared, Cordoba! Just dump those two others to get picked up by the Hand, and you're completely free and clear!"

"Completely?" Cordoba repeated, still having some problems with his childe's story. Jaime finally picked up on his suspicion, and turned a surprised and hurt look on her sire.

"You don't trust me?" Jaime asked.

"This is a real sudden turnaround," Cordoba said. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"Because I love you, Cordoba," Jaime replied quietly, gazing up into her sire's eyes. Silently Cordoba judged the value of the statement. It had always been true that Jaime had been in love with her sire, but it had also been a well kept secret. It would have been bad for the pack leader's image to have a greater attachment to one pack member than to the rest. As a result, neither of them had ever told anyone about their private affair.

"Okay," Cordoba finally said. "I believe you. But you're sure everything's alright?"

"Well, Hector's pissed," Jaime conceded. "He was really getting off on running things with you out of the way. He might not give up his position so easily."

"He'll give it up," Cordoba said, putting on a bit of a malicious grin for show. While he pretended to have bought the girl's story completely, Cordoba could still not shake the feeling that something was wrong. Jaime might think she was telling the truth, but Hector might have planned on using the girl as bait and sent her out to lure the former pack leader into the open. The Panders knew he would need some backup if more than just Hector turned on him, though, and quickly decided that he needed K.T. and Erica to be around to present more targets. "But listen.

"What?" Jaime asked.

"We're going to hide out at your place tonight," Cordoba stated. "Me, and that mercenary and Blackwell."

"But, Cordoba, they-" Jaime started.

"Look, I believe you," Cordoba interrupted. "But we'll go to the _Palla Grande_ tomorrow, and meet our packs there. When we get there, we can present the mercenary and the Loyalist to the council of bishops, which will give me even more leverage getting my packs back. And, if bad comes to worst, I'll fight Hector tomorrow and use him as part of the Blood Feast."

________________________________________________

"This is stupid," K.T. thought to himself, sitting in front of the Museum of Natural History at almost a quarter to four in the morning. Directly across the street, Central Park looked dark and menacing below the three quarter moon's silvery light, and occasionally the Gangrel could swear that he had seen something large and ominous move through the underbrush just inside the park perimeter. As K.T. sat, he kept his hand on the grip of his Ruger, although he doubted his gun would be little more than an irritant to a Lupine without any silver bullets. Still, K.T. needed to try to find his Shadow Lord contacts, and sitting just outside the park was the only way he could think of to find Alex or his comrades.

K.T. lit a cigarette and put it to his lips, wondering if this had been such a good idea. He was certain that most Lupines would not risk revealing themselves to the public in their war forms, but he had heard of one or two werewolves go completely berserk in front of normal mortals. He also had to worry about a roving pack of Sabbat appearing from the darkness, or one of two assassins that could be sneaking up on him at any moment. As the mercenary took his first drag off of his cigarette, he saw a man in a business suit walk out of Central Park, heading purposefully across the street to the museum. K.T. watched him approach warily until he could finally make out Alex's Russian features, but even then the Gangrel's hand stayed on his Ruger. As Alex reached him, the Shadow Lord glanced purposefully at the vampire's partially concealed hand.

"Nice night," Alex commented, smiling slightly and taking a seat next to the Gangrel. "So tell me, do you always come out to werewolf meeting places when the moon is this close to full?"

"Not usually, but I needed a little help," K.T. replied. "I figured this would get your attention."

"Yeah, it did," Alex stated. "It also got everyone else's attention. Most of them wouldn't mind rending the Veil right now just o tear you apart."

"Veil?" K.T. echoed, unfamiliar with the term.

"Like your Masquerade," the Shadow Lord stated. "Don't reveal yourself to mortals, basically. But I somehow doubt that is why you were looking for me."

"No, it isn't," K.T. admitted. "I have some information, however, that might mean more to you than it does to me. Do you know anyone named Connor MacIntyre?"

"Works for City Hall," Alex answered. "We know he's a vampire. But, from what I've seen, I don't think he's from the Sabbat."

"Yeah, well, he's involved in this whole mess," K.T. reported. "He might even be the leader of the conspiracy or whatever the hell it is. But I don't have much to go on with him."

"Neither do we," Alex admitted. K.T. groaned as he found himself hitting another brick wall. "He keeps a low profile. Very low."

"What about Hassan al-Khabir?" the mercenary tried.

"I don't think I've ever heard the name before," Alex answered. "Sounds like an Assamite, though."

"Yeah, he is," K.T. replied. He paused for a second, then smiled, frustrated. "Look, I don't know if this'll lead anywhere, but there's a mage in town, some guy named Brian, looking for another mage. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"Mages?" Alex asked. "We don't deal with them often, but there have been some occasions. You have a name for me to work with?"

"No," K.T. replied, shaking his head in disgust. "Brian seems to think I have a lot more answers than I really do. Everyone seems to think that."

"His name is Terrence Warner," a cheery, familiar voice said from behind the two men. Both Alex and K.T. turned quickly, hands going to weapons, until they saw Brian standing behind the bench with a smile on his face. "You know, you could have just asked for his name, if you wanted it," the mage said with a grin. "Maybe you two should write that down, you know, make sure you have it and all."

"You're Brian?" Alex concluded, locking gazes with the mage.

"Yup," the blond haired man replied with a smile. "Alex, is it? Or do you prefer Alexei? Either way, Mister Karamov, I'm a bit of an admirer. You're a great defense attorney, and you've never gone _crinos_ in a courtroom."

"How do you know who I am?" Alex demanded, his hand drifting to the back of his suit jacket. Brian held up a hand. 

"Please don't draw your klaive, Alex, I'm just saying that the work you do is really fantastic," Brian said. "Come on, lighten up. I mean, if you could get into my mind and look around, I know you would. I just figured I'd take the opportunities I have in life."

"You fucking little bastard," Alex growled, starting to stand. The hilt of a very large knife was starting to become visible from underneath his jacket. Brian pointed a finger at him sternly, and the Shadow Lord collapsed back into his seat, sapped of his strength.

"And I don't want to see another little display like that, young man," the mage chided. Then he turned to K.T. "Alexei's going to be out of sorts for another minute or so, but when he comes back from La-La Land, tell him Terrence is a Nephandi and he's working with Pentex Incorporated. And I think we can just call ourselves square, because now all the werewolves in the city will be looking for him."

"Nephandi?" K.T. repeated. "Pentex? What the hell-?"

"No more questions," Brian interrupted, pointing at K.T. The vampire was suddenly lost for words, unable to even remember how to speak. Brian looked him over with a hint of worry. "I just hope Alexei doesn't shred you before he gets the message."

Brian walked off whistling, and a moment later the Shadow Lord sat bolt upright in his seat. Within a second he had drawn a huge, intricately carved knife of black glass.

"Where the fuck is he?" Alex demanded, looking around. K.T. shrugged, one eye still on the Shadow Lord's klaive.

"He left," the Gangrel said. "He said to tell you that Terrence is a Nephandi working with Pentex, whatever that means."

"Great," Alex grumbled, sheathing his blade angrily. "Just wonderful. This is just what I needed, with everything else going on in the city right now. Looks like your problem has just become my problem. You have any more questions?"

"No," K.T. answered, unwilling to linger for too long around a furious Lupine. "Maybe I'll see you around, Alex."

"Only if I have real bad luck," the Shadow Lord muttered, starting back to Central Park.

____________________________________________________

It was nearly five in the morning before K.T. finally reached the corner of Thirty-eighth Street and Ninth Avenue, and for once the sidewalks of Manhattan were largely deserted. The mercenary still made his way warily through the streets, watching for any signs of his many enemies in the city. K.T. finally breathed out a sigh of relief as he saw Cordoba standing in the doorway of a five story apartment building, waiting patiently for signs of his two allies. As the Panders saw K.T., he walked down to street level to meet his ally.

"You find anything?" Cordoba inquired flatly.

"Nothing useful," the mercenary replied. "But I think I got the mage off our backs. He seemed to be more than happy to turn his problem over to the Lupines."

"That's good news," Cordoba remarked. "Especially because I found out that Peter got his memory back, and the Sabbat is no longer after us."

"They aren't?" K.T. asked skeptically, following Cordoba back into the apartment building. "How did this come about?"

"I found one of my packmates on the street," the Panders explained. "Jaime, as a matter of fact."

"I thought Jaime was dead," K.T. said, stopping short on the stairs. Cordoba turned back to him.

"She's not," the Panders replied simply. "They blasted her into torpor, but they never finished her off."

"Then the rest of your packs know where we are," K.T. deduced, his hand dropping to his Ruger.

"No, they don't," Cordoba countered. "We're no longer wanted, mercenary. Relax. Everything is going to be straightened out."

"Where's Erica?" K.T. demanded, still remaining where he was on the stairs.

"She's in the apartment," Cordoba replied. "Stop being so fucking paranoid and let's go up and meet them. Nothing will happen tonight. They don't know where we are."

"Are you buying any of this?" K.T. asked, surprised that the Panders would be so susceptible to such a ploy. "They're trying to lure us out, and they're using Jaime as bait! This is insane!"

"Jaime is not bait," Cordoba stated simply, coming back down a pair of steps to the mercenary. "I trust her. That's all you need to know. She was supposed to bring us back to them tonight, but we're not going there. Erica has been with her for the entire night, so you can even ask her if she got in touch with my packs. We are safe, for tonight at the very least. Understand, mercenary?"

"This is a trap," K.T. stated, frustrated with the innate sense of trust that the Sabbat seemed to place in each other. Cordoba shook his head.

"We are safe," the Panders said with a tone of harsh finality. He turned and started up the stairs, leaving K.T. to decide if he should follow. Finally, without any real options ands with Erica in the Panders' apartment, the Gangrel started hesitantly up the staircase, ready to face an attack at any second. Cordoba pushed open a brown varnished door on the second floor of the building, and gestured for the Gangrel to walk inside. After a long, deliberate hesitation, K.T. finally entered the apartment.

Erica and Jaime were both inside, sitting on a couch set back against the wall to his left and watching television. As the Ventrue saw K.T., she jumped from her seat and started towards him.

"You made it back!" she exclaimed happily.

"Yeah," K.T. replied, his attention fixed almost completely on Jaime as Cordoba's packmate turned a smile on him. "Everything going alright up here?"

"Yeah," Erica replied, instantly picking up on the mercenary's unease. "Look, I went through everything with Jaime, and it's all legit. Trust us, K.T. Once we get through the_ Palla Grande _tomorrow night, everything'll be fine."

"Alright," K.T. said. He had no intention of even going anywhere near the _Palla Grande_, but for now it seemed as though the Sabbat would be content to wait for him to come to them. "I'll play along. For now. But don't blame me when this blows up in our faces."

"Don't worry about that," Erica said with a bit of a smile. "If it does, we'll probably all be dead."


	7. Sleight of Hands, Part Six

****

XVI

"Happy Halloween!"

K.T. fumbled for a moment, trying to pull his Ruger out of the tangle of his duster, but a gentle hand stopped him before he could draw the weapon. For a long moment the mercenary simply stared up at someone standing over him, unable to completely clear his vision. Finally, Erica came into focus leaning over the end of the couch, smiling down at him as she waited for the Gangrel to gather his wits.

"Hi," K.T. said, his voice lacking its characteristic sour inflections. For a second the mercenary simply gazed up at the young Ventrue, allowing himself to get lost in the girl's eyes.

"I thought you were going to sleep all night," Erica said, leaning in close to the Gangrel. K.T. sat up quickly, pulling himself away from the Ventrue before she could make contact.

"We have things to do tonight," K.T said, pulling his duster around straight on his body. Erica watched him pace away from her quickly, noticing easily the anxiety in the Gangrel's body language.

"You're not much on the whole display of affection thing, are you?" Erica commented. K.T. turned back to her.

"Sorry," the mercenary replied. "Look, I… we're in a bad situation here. I need to keep my head on straight. So do you, for that matter."

"Okay," Erica said, graciously conceding the argument for the moment. K.T. took another look around the apartment, noticing suddenly that he was alone with the Ventrue.

"Where are they?" the mercenary asked, growing instantly suspicious.

"Down the block, getting some blood," Erica answered. "You're really edgy, K.T. Just take a deep breath and relax for just a moment. It'll do you some good."

"Get your stuff," K.T. said. "We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Erica repeated, stunned.

"Yeah," K.T. confirmed. "We're out of here. Out of New York and all this psychotic shit."

"But… you… we're going to the _Palla Grande_," Erica stammered, stunned by her companion's sudden decision. "Cordoba has his packs back, for the most part, and we can get Hassan extinguished!"

"Get Hassan extinguished?" K.T. repeated, incredulous. "Are you out of your mind? Do you really think everything is cool between Cordoba and his packs? Or the rest of the Sabbat, for that matter?"

"We can get Jerry and-" Erica started.

"Forget Jerry!" K.T. countered, cutting off her statement. "This vendetta thing you've got going is going to get you killed! We have a very narrow window of opportunity here to get out of this God forsaken city, and I really don't want to miss it!"

"Then go!" Erica yelled back. "This city is my home, and I'm staying! Goddamnit K.T., you're so fucking paranoid!"

"That's why I'm still alive," the Gangrel pointed out angrily. "Because I know better than to take anyone's word based on what sect they belong to. You're walking into a trap, Erica. You're smart enough to realize that. Don't throw your life away trying to get some kind of vengeance on Jerry!"

"K.T., don't worry!" Erica said, taking the mercenary's arm. "I've got a way out!"

"What way out?" K.T. asked.

"Well, I saw Clairvius last night, and he said he could get an agent into the hotel," Erica explained. K.T. simply stared at her, dumbfounded. "He can get us what we need on the inside, and provide us with a way out if we get stuck!"

"That's your way out?" K.T. asked, amazed. "Are you that far gone?"

"That far gone?" Erica repeated. "Look, K.T., they've been helping us all along! Why would they stop now?"

"Forget it," K.T. said, throwing his hands up in frustration. He was furious with Erica for trying to use the Setites in the same fashion as they were using her, and furious at himself for getting himself into his current position. He had to leave; it was now or never, before Cordoba and Jaime returned. "Just forget it. You want to kill yourself, go ahead. I'm getting gout of this fucking city."

"K.T., come on!" Erica exclaimed, grabbing the mercenary by the arm once more. "I mean, it's not like we have a choice! Brian'll kill us if we leave!"

"That's been taken care of," K.T. countered, turning back to Erica a second time. "He thinks the Lupines are going to take care of his problems now."

"Okay, so, no more mage problems," Erica conceded. "But, come on, K.T.! We can nail Jerry and Hassan here! Think of the opportunities! Especially with Cordoba on our side, Polonia and the Council of Bishops have to listen to us! They at least have to hear us out, and if they question Jerry, they'll get all the answers they need! We'll be heroes!"

"Listen to yourself!" K.T. exclaimed. "We'll be heroes? Erica, the only thing you'll be is dead if you go to this _Palla Grande_ thing tonight! Forget the Black Hand, forget Hassan, and most of all, forget Jerry!"

"Goddamnit K.T., this is my home!" Erica shot back. "I don't know if some drifter Gangrel mercenary can understand that term, but this is where I live, and I'm not about to let some little shadow conspiracy chase me out!"

"Fucking Christ!" K.T. shouted. He simply shook his head in abject frustration, trying to find some way to get through to the Ventrue. For a long moment the two glared at each other, each one trying to make the other see the opposite side of the argument.

"Please, K.T.," Erica said, finally breaking the silence as she took a step back to K.T. "I promise you, everything will be alright. I know you don't want to deal with the Setites, so we'll only rely on them if we absolutely have to, okay? Please, K.T. Please stay. Everything will be fine. Trust me if no one else."

_Everything is not going to be alright_, K.T. thought to himself.

"Alright," K.T. grumbled, fighting every instinct in his body. There was a slim chance at best that he would escape the night alive, but he found himself going along with Erica's ludicrous plan nonetheless. Already that voice in the back of his mind was laughing at him, mocking him for forming the emotional attachment that he had known all along would lead him into trouble. He could only hope that he would find some way to either prove Hassan's involvement in some sort of conspiracy, or else find a quick way out of the ceremony, and the city, before anyone could catch up with them. "We'll try it your way. But remember. No stupid vendettas against Jerry. Understand?"

"We get the Hand, we get Jerry," Erica said, neatly evading a direct answer. K.T. was about to pry a more direct response out of the Ventrue when the apartment door opened, and Cordoba and Jaime returned to the apartment.

"Get your Toreador friend on the phone," the older Panders said, speaking to Erica. "We have a party to go to, and we need formal attire."

"Formal attire?" K.T. repeated, looking to the Panders.

"Yeah," Cordoba confirmed. "Everybody has to get dressed up. No exceptions. Not even for Gangrel."

"I'm gonna die in a suit," K.T. grumbled.

"A tux," Cordoba corrected with a smirk.

"Do I get a gun?" K.T. inquired dismally, though he was already fairly certain of the answer.

"According to the rules, no," Cordoba replied. He smiled slightly. "According to me, you can never be too well armed."

"At least I'll go down firing," K.T. muttered. Jaime walked up to him, and gave him a hug.

"Don't worry, mercenary," the younger Panders said with a smile. "We'll be fine. I swear to Caine our packs aren't going to hunt us down."

"I feel so much better now," K.T. grumbled. Erica hung up the phone, and turned back to the trio.

"Okay, everything's set," the Ventrue said cheerfully. "Crystal'll meet us outside the hotel, and sneak us up into a room where we can get changed. After that, we can head back down to the party and see if we can get a quiet meeting with the bishops or someone who'll be able to help us."

"Sounds good," Cordoba said, nodding. K.T. shook his head in resignation. "We'd better get moving. We don't want to be late."

"No, of course not," K.T. said, his voice thick with sarcasm. Erica took the Gangrel forcibly by the arm and started him out into the hallway, smiling at Cordoba as she walked past. Jaime started after the pair, but Cordoba caught her by the arm.

"What?" the younger Panders asked, looking up at her sire.

"You're certain everything is fine," Cordoba said. "Nothing seemed odd when they brought you out of torpor."

"Yeah," Jaime replied. "Look, they believe Peter. And most of them would rather see you in the lead than Hector. Everything'll be fine, Cordoba. I promise."

"You'd better be right," Cordoba said. "For your sake, as well as mine."

"Cordoba, I… I swear everything is fine," Jaime said again, stunned by the implied threat. Cordoba stared at her for a long moment, his face unreadable as he judged her honesty. Finally, the Panders smiled.

"Then let's go," he said with renewed good humor. "We don't want to keep the other two waiting, do we?"

_________________________________________

Despite the relatively early hour, the Marriott Essex on Central Park South was already filled to overflowing with Sabbat, dominating the elegant, gigantic hotel on the boundaries of Central Park. As K.T. got out of the black Lincoln Town Car that Cordoba had stolen earlier in the night, he nearly turned and walked away. At least a hundred vampires were flooding the Marriott's lower floors. Cordoba stepped out of the car as well, and looked at the Gangrel with amused interest.

"Bet you can't wait to get in there," the Panders said with a smirk.

"This is a bad idea," K.T. pointed out.

"Relax," Cordoba said as Erica and Jaime joined the two men. "Just stay low until I can talk to some of the bishops."

"Stay low," K.T. repeated flatly. "Right. We're gonna die."

"Come on, K.T., lighten up," Erica said, taking the mercenary's hand and leading him to the hotel. "Everything will be fine. I promise."

"So you keep saying," K.T. grumbled. He stopped abruptly as he saw a young woman in a low cut, crimson evening gown walking toward them, but Erica simply quickened her pace slightly to meet the stunningly beautiful newcomer.

"Erica!" Crystal exclaimed with a big smile as she reached the Ventrue. The two embraced quickly, then separated. "I see you guys made it. Is it true? Is everything straightened out for you guys?"

"Oh, yeah, of course it is," K.T. said sarcastically. "I'm certain there aren't any traps waiting for us inside."

"K.T. is so cheerful," Erica said with a smile, largely ignoring the Gangrel. "So, did you get what I asked for?"

"Everything you wanted," Crystal replied, casting a glance to K.T. "I think you'll be happy with the results. Anyway, come on inside! I got you guys rooms so you can get changed and clean up a little, and this promises to be one of the best _Palla Grandes_ on record! You don't want to miss anything! You know Alfonzo, right?"

"Only by reputation," Erica answered as Crystal led them to the Marriott. "Isn't he from the Bronx?"

"Yeah, you know him!" Crystal exclaimed. "Well, he's in charge of the Legend of Caine, and he gave me a part!"

"Crystal, that's great!" Erica exclaimed. K.T. glanced back to Cordoba, but the Panders simply rolled his eyes in disgust at the conversation. "You've been trying for a part for six years!"

"I know!" Crystal agreed. "I'm so excited!"

"We're not going in through the front, are we?" K.T. asked, seeing where Crystal was taking the group.

"Humor him and bring us up through the side," Erica requested, tossing an irritable look over her shoulder at the Gangrel.

"Alright," Crystal said, making a quick left and heading along the side of the hotel. She took four card keys from her purse, and handed them to each of the four vampires. "Sixth floor, 619 and 620. I put the dresses in 619."

"That's us, then," Erica said. K.T. nodded absently, his eyes constantly searching the streets for an ambush while Erica and Crystal caught up on the events of the past week or so and Cordoba and Jaime kept pace with their own conversation. Even heading in through a less traveled side entrance, the Gangrel still found himself rubbing elbows with an uncomfortable amount of Sabbat vampires, but fortunately none of them recognized the mercenary or his companions. The Gangrel did not take his hand off the butt of his revolver until the five of them were in the elevator and the cab was ascending to the sixth floor. The doors finally slid open on the sixth floor, and K.T. simply stared out at the immaculate floral print carpeting and beige walls just outside the cab.

"Well, this is as far as I go," Crystal said. "I have so many things to do, and I still have to say hello to a whole bunch of people, but I'll see you guys down there, okay? I'll be near the stage area, so just look for me there."

"Okay," Erica said, giving Crystal a quick kiss on the cheek. "Hey, if for some reason I don't see you before the Legend of Caine, good luck!"

"Thanks, Erica," Crystal said as Cordoba and Jaime brushed past the pair and started down the hall. "See you later!"

Crystal stepped back inside the elevator, and the cab started back down to the mezzanine. For a long moment K.T. simply stood in the hall, glancing in either direction for some sign of a trap.

"Come on," Erica said, taking the mercenary's arm and leading him across the floor. "Just relax, take it easy, and realize that there's nobody up here."

"She took off in a hurry," K.T. observed.

"She has things to do," Erica explained, leading the mercenary to their rooms. "Now go get changed, and I'll see you in a few minutes. Okay?"

"Sure," K.T. said dubiously, dropping his hand back to his Ruger. Erica simply chuckled a little as she unlocked her room and walked inside. After listening for the sounds of a conflict inside Erica's room for a long moment and hearing nothing, the mercenary turned to his own door and hesitantly stepped into his own room.

He almost expected an ambush to be set for him just inside the door. Instead of a heavily armed Sabbat pack, however, K.T. simply found Cordoba examining the tuxedo that Crystal had left for him next to the near bed in the luxurious hotel room. The Panders ignored the mercenary's wary glance around the immaculately cleaned, spacious suite, and simply started to change into his suit for the party.

"Fancy shit," Cordoba said as K.T. finally resigned himself to change for the _Palla Grande_.

"Everyone has to dress up for this thing?" K.T. asked, eyeing his own tux with obvious distaste.

"Yeah," Cordoba replied, pulling his jacket on and then going to work hiding two knives beneath the garment. He continued talking as he took a knife off of his boot next to the bed and strapped it to his leg beneath his sock. "It's the biggest ritual of the year for us. And when you live in the Cardinal's home city, you don't have a choice. Even if you're Gangrel."

"I've never dressed this well in my entire life," K.T. grumbled, finally accepting the situation and changing into the suit.

"I could tell," Cordoba said with a smirk as K.T. fumbled with his bowtie. The Panders, for his part, simply threw his tie on the bed and started for the door. 

"You really think your packs have given up on trying to kill you?" K.T. asked as the Panders began to turn the knob. Cordoba froze for a second, and the mercenary was certain that he was about to receive another tirade concerning how his packs would never turn on him.

"I trust Jaime," Cordoba said evenly. "But I don't trust Peter or Hector right now. Something is going on, but I don't know what it is."

"And you came anyway?" K.T. asked, incredulous. He had hoped against hope that maybe he was simply being paranoid, but Cordoba's own suspicions flushed any last hope of surviving the night down the drain. Cordoba turned back to the mercenary with a nod.

"MacIntyre's not part of the Sabbat," the Panders stated. "Neither is Graime. That leaves us Hassan and Jerry to deal with. Hassan, being as powerful and known as he is among the Sabbat's leaders, will have to be public with them, or at least be dealing with them. Which gives me time to break through to Polonia or one or two of his retinue to explain things."

"That's your plan," K.T. said, skeptical. Cordoba nodded.

"Look, something has been going on with the Black Hand, from what I can tell," the Panders stated. "There have been several occasions where the Hand should have been involved, but Polonia or another bishop purposely left them out of things. My guess is that Polonia doesn't trust the Hand as far as he can throw them. Which means that I simply have to get to Polonia before Hassan can stop me."

"This is great," K.T. said, growing even more convinced that this would be his last night alive. The Gangrel gave up on his bowtie and started to try to figure out how he could carry his Ruger without appearing armed, but finally gave up as Cordoba walked back to the bed and dropped a Glock on the mattress.

"You'll never get through with that hand cannon," the Panders remarked. "Take the Glock."

"Wonderful," K.T. grumbled. "Maybe this isn't such a great idea. Maybe we should try to wait until tomorrow to see Polonia."

"And maybe we should give Hassan another night to hunt us down," Cordoba added, heading back to the door. "Trust me. I'll get to Polonia before Hector and Peter get to me."

"Great," K.T. muttered as his ally left the room. "Fucking great. I'm going to die on Halloween."

_________________________________________

K.T. walked out into the hall to see Cordoba leaning against the wall, staring at the door to room 619. The mercenary glanced over to his ally, but the Panders simply shrugged.

"Did you expect them to get ready quickly?" Cordoba inquired. K.T. shrugged, then started across the hallway to the door. "Very tactful," the Panders commented as the mercenary raised his fist. K.T. glanced back over his shoulder, shrugged a second time, and then pounded on the door.

"Jesus Christ, K.T., give us a minute!" Erica shouted from inside the room. K.T. walked to the opposite side of the hall and leaned back against the wall, a scowl on his face. Cordoba pulled out one of his knives and retrieved a sharpening stone from his pocket, and set about working on the edge. They waited five more minutes before Cordoba broke the relative silence in the hall.

"I'm sure they'll be ready eventually," the Panders stated, seeing the mercenary growing more and more restless.

"The fucking thing'll be over by the time they're ready," K.T. commented. Cordoba smiled.

"I thought you didn't want to go," the Panders said. K.T. simply glared at him for a moment. Cordoba chuckled a little at the mercenary's frustration, then went back to sharpening his knife. "Why don't you try knocking again? It worked so well last time."

K.T. scowled at Cordoba for a moment, ready to make some kind of caustic remark, but the sound of Erica's hotel room door opening caught his attention before he could come up with a suitable remark.

Any comment K.T. had planned to say about the length of time it had taken for Erica to dress for the party died in the mercenary's throat as the Ventrue sauntered out of the hotel room, clad in a tight, strapless emerald green dress that perfectly accentuated every curve of her body. For a long moment the mercenary simply stared at the Ventrue, until a chuckle from Cordoba snapped K.T. out of his momentary paralysis.

"Like it?" Erica asked, smiling at the dumbfounded Gangrel.

"It's alright," K.T. answered, quickly trying to regain an indifferent attitude. Cordoba nearly laughed out loud, but was polite enough to stifle most of his mirth at the situation. The mercenary turned back on his Hispanic ally, but before he could say anything Jaime had gotten in the way, modeling off her black evening gown for her escort.

"That's what I like about you," Erica said, regaining the K.T.'s attention as she went to work on the bowtie hung around K.T.'s collar. "You're so full of praise and compliments for everyone."

"I try," K.T. grumbled, reluctantly allowing the Ventrue to tie the garment. 

"Well, we'll meet you two downstairs," Cordoba said, taking Jaime by the arm and escorting her to the elevator. K.T. turned away from Erica, stunned by the Panders' sudden decision to split the group.

"You're not going to wait for us?" the Gangrel asked in disbelief.

"I have people to see," Cordoba explained. "I'll meet you downstairs. By the stage. Like I said, lay low, mercenary."

"Ah, let them go," Erica said, turning K.T. to face her again as their two allies entered the elevator. "We'll have all the time in the world to catch up with them."

"This is bad," K.T. said, growing rapidly uneasy. Cordoba might have been completely truthful about planning to go to Polonia or another high ranking Sabbat to sort out the situation, but the mercenary had a sudden, sickening feeling that he was going to be given to the bishops as a sacrifice.

"Lighten up just a little, K.T.," Erica chided, finishing with the bowtie and taking a step back. "Not bad. You clean up pretty well."

"I feel like a clown," K.T. grumbled, still wondering about what Cordoba or the Black Hand would have waiting for him in the mezzanine.

"Never happy," Erica said with a sigh, smoothing out the mercenary's suit jacket one last time. She smiled slightly as she hooked her arm around his and started for the elevator. "So, you like my dress?"

"It's alright," K.T. repeated. Erica giggled as she stopped and turned to him.

"It's okay," she said with a smile. "Nobody's around to hear you say anything nice. Tell me, K.T. Do any Gangrel actually compliment people, or do they all just look really pissed off all the time?"

"Compliments are against my religion," K.T. said flatly. Given another time and place, he might actually have enjoyed the conversation, but he was too busy worrying about what Cordoba might be planning at the party to give more than a slight amount of his attention to the Ventrue on his arm.

"Somehow, I knew you would say something like that," Erica said, summoning the elevator back up to their floor. K.T. simply scowled at her for a moment, wondering again what exactly he was hoping to accomplish at the Sabbat's largest gathering of the year. The elevator doors finally opened, and K.T. slowly stepped into the cab. After a moment, however, Erica was still standing in the hallway, her smile gone as she strained to listen for something in the hotel.

"Are you coming?" K.T. asked. Erica held up a hand impatiently. Slowly the mercenary stepped back out of the elevator, his hand dropping to the pitifully undersized Glock hidden beneath his jacket.

Slowly Erica turned and started back along the hallway, kicking off her heels as she followed the sound of a very faint voice somewhere on the floor. K.T. crept along behind her, every muscle in his body tensing for a rapid shot or a speedy dodge.

A door opened somewhere behind them. K.T. whirled and nearly drew his gun, but managed to stop himself as a well dressed man in his early fifties turned away from his room. As the older man noticed K.T.'s ready stance, he backed up half a step, fear coming to his face. It only took a second for the Gangrel to notice that the man was clearly breathing.

"Sorry," the mercenary said. "Thought you were someone else."

"Of course," the older man replied, hurrying to the elevator. K.T. watched him go for a moment, then turned back to see Erica coming to a stop in front of a door near the end of the hall. Quickly K.T. made his way to her side, and for a long moment listened to nothing but silence on the other side of the closed door. K.T. glanced to Erica, but the Ventrue held up a finger to keep him from speaking.

"So what the hell were they doing in my office?" someone finally demanded. "I have enough problems trying to balance the Ventrue, Lasombra, and Giovanni without someone starting a gunfight in my building! And my nephew was killed besides!"

"Your nephew's loss was a most regrettable occurrence, Mister Enrathi, but I will not be held responsible for it," Connor MacIntyre stated, addressing Julian Enrathi. Erica's eyes widened as she heard the voice, but she said nothing as the Black Hand lawyer continued. "This past month has seen several shifts in a very delicate balance of power which we have struggled to maintain between the factions in this city."

"Do they know about the chatterlings?" Julian demanded in a tense, almost frightened voice. "I swear to God, MacIntyre, If we deliver those kids and someone's waiting for us there-"

"Mister Enrathi, do you really think that these fugitives from the Sabbat are going to bother looking into something so mundane as kidnapping?" Connor inquired, sounding almost amused as he interrupted his ghoul subordinate. "They have enough problems even stumbling into the right direction, and only luck has kept them alive so far. Beginning tomorrow, send three of your ghouls to track them down and kill them while they sleep. My agents will keep them on the run at night until your men can bring them down."

"Maybe if you had just let Hassan finish that mercenary off without resorting to this maniac, things would have gone differently," Jerry remarked, his calm voice barely concealing his anger with the situation. K.T. glanced over to Erica, and saw the Ventrue's face tighten into a mask of rage. "Maybe we wouldn't be trying to rely on Enrathi's surviving ghouls."

"Hassan was busy," Connor said sternly. Erica began to draw her own Glock from her purse, but K.T. grabbed her wrist and shot a warning glance to her. "Do you think he has nothing better to do than chase down your problems? Who do you think is keeping Polonia from prying too far into our affairs? This mercenary should not have been a problem."

"I think the boy is better than you give him credit for," Phillip stated, a hint of humor in his voice.

"Regardless of his ability, he has completely upset the power balance," Connor pointed out. "We have lost the Toreador in Long Island, and the Sabbat are tearing themselves apart looking for this supposed Camarilla agent and his coconspirators. Given the current situation, both the Giovanni and the Followers of Set could gain too much ground too quickly. We need both the Sabbat and the Camarilla strong, for the time being, to balance each other as well as the Jamaicans and the Italians."

"So what?" Jason Graime said, nonchalant. With all the other members of the Black Hand conspiracy in the room, K.T. was coming to the unnerving conclusion that Hassan al-Khabir was also on the other side of the door, silently waiting for his opportunity to finish the job he had started in Harry's cemetery almost a week earlier. "Guidos and Rastafarians. I'm frightened now."

"Nonetheless, they are enemies of the Ancients and deceptively strong as it is," Connor stated. "Respect your enemies, Graime, lest you grow overconfident and underestimate your foes."

"Ancients?" Erica whispered in disbelief. K.T. shot a second warning glance at the Ventrue, but she barely noticed as she leapt to the conclusion that the Black Hand was fighting for the interests of the third generation of vampires, the founders of the different clans. The Sabbat, however, was violently opposed to the clan founders, fighting instead for Caine, the first vampire and the legendary Biblical slayer of Abel. 

"It's a little late for that advice," Jerry huffed. "If he hadn't been screwing around so much with Thiel's wonder boy mercenary for the past two weeks, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"I would hardly go so far as to call him my wonder boy," Phillip countered in a bemused tone. "I simply think that the boy has some minor potential."

Erica turned to K.T., surprised by the odd reference to her ally, but K.T. tried to ignore her as the conversation continued.

"You know, Jerry, maybe if you weren't writing love letters to the boss here, I wouldn't have had to go wiping out your pack and a pair of bishops," Graime pointed out, growing indignant. There was a long moment of silence on the other side of the door.

"What do you mean, if _I_ was writing love letters?" Jerry finally asked. "Connor sent that message to me!"

"I sent no such communiqué," Connor stated, a hint of confusion breaking through his voice.

"Well then who the hell sent it?" Jerry asked. Another long moment of silence followed.

"Well, I think Thiel's wonder boy mercenary is at the door right now," Graime remarked casually. "Maybe he knows."

"They're at the door?" Enrathi exclaimed, stunned by the Malkavian's nonchalant revelation.

"Time to go," K.T. said simply.

The two fugitives turned and sprinted for the elevator, but the door suddenly crashed open and Hassan streaked out into the hall. K.T. backpedaled for a second, drawing his Glock and letting off three shots, but the Assamite ducked and rolled under the bullets without losing a hint of speed, bearing down on his targets with his scimitar drawn and glittering in the hall lights. Graime raced out of the hotel room next, but K.T. wasted no time with the Malkavian as he let a flurry of gunshots off at Hassan in a desperate attempt to slow the assassin. Erica reached the elevator and punched the buttons frantically, praying for the doors to open before Hassan could reach them.

K.T.'s salvo lasted for only a second before his Glock ran out of bullets, but Hassan was nearly on top of him as the mercenary turned and charged for the elevator doors. Erica whirled from the doors and pulled her own Glock, letting off another burst even as Graime's Skorpion chattered to life behind the Assamite. K.T. slammed into the Ventrue and barged forward, thanking God as the elevator doors opened and allowed the two fugitives inside.

"Come on, close, damnit!" Erica shouted, scrambling back to her feet and frantically punching the buttons next to the doors. Hassan reached the doors as K.T. grew his hands into razor sharp talons and leveled a vicious swipe at the Assamite's chest, but the Gangrel hit nothing more than air as Hassan dropped low and scored a long, shallow slash to the mercenary's chest. Erica stepped into K.T.'s place as he stumbled back, blazing away point blank at Hassan and forcing him back long enough for the elevator doors to finally close.

"Now can we get the hell out of town?" K.T. demanded, turning to Erica as she quickly jammed a second magazine into her Glock. A terrible screech ripped through the elevator as Hassan tried to cut his way through the doors. Erica turned on the door and blazed away with wild abandon, putting nine rounds through the metal in the two or three seconds that it took for the cab to begin its descent. "Just trust me, she says," K.T. grumbled as he reloaded his own gun. "I should have my fucking head examined for being here!"

"They're working for the Ancients!" Erica exclaimed, ignoring the mercenary's comments in her panic. "We have to get to Polonia and warn him! Jesus Christ, this is huge! This could destroy the entire Sabbat!"

"Are you insane?" K.T. demanded, grabbing Erica's wrist and forcing her to look at him. "We'll get killed if we stay here!"

"We have to let someone know!" Erica shouted back furiously. The elevator doors slid open, and she turned quickly to rush out of the cab. K.T. was about to try to talk some sense into the Ventrue when the two vampires were blasted by a wave of thunderous music, stopping them both in their tracks.

The two fugitives simply stood and stared out of the elevator, frozen in place by the horde of vampires dancing and whirling through the darkened, deafening mezzanine of the Essex. Sabbat of every description packed the main room, from young, brazen pack members wearing stolen suits and boasting loudly of their latest atrocities to dark, frightening Sabbat power players skulking on the edges of their younger companions' sight. 

"Wrong floor," K.T. said simply, taking half a step back and turning to the control panel on the wall. Before he could close the elevator doors again, four young Sabbat piled into the cab, laughing as they nearly crushed Erica against the back of the elevator. 

"In or out," one stated, his array of tattoos and ear, nose, and lip piercings somehow perfectly complimenting his ridiculous powder blue tuxedo. K.T. hesitated for a second, quickly trying to gauge the relative power of the four Sabbat. Once the doors closed, they would see the bullet holes in the metal, and they might quickly realize that K.T. was the supposed "Camarilla agent" infiltrating the Sabbat. A shootout in such tight confines would be a no win situation for the mercenary, especially considering the machine pistols that the two young men of the pack were barely concealing under their coats.

"Out," K.T. said, grabbing Erica's hand and dragging her past the four young Sabbat. The mercenary quickly pushed his way through the crowd, feeling the young man's eyes on his back as the two made their way into the mezzanine.

_________________________________________

"Eight years in a row, I run into the bastard before I even set foot in the door. Now when I want to see him he's completely invisible."

"Cordoba, where are we going?" Jaime demanded, trying to keep up with her sire. The two had only reached the dim, cavernous expanse of the Essex' mezzanine five minutes earlier, but since they had left the elevator Cordoba had done nothing but barge through the crowds of Sabbat in search of something in the mass of well dressed vampires. Now, as they pushed their way through the packs of Toreador that frequently gathered near the skirts of the _Palla Grande's_ main stage, the young Panders tried to bring her sire to a halt. "Come on, Cordoba, where are we going?"

"Fucking Turnbull!" Cordoba snapped in reply. "Every time I show up someplace where a bishop might be, the fucker is always there to tell me to stay in line! Now that I actually want to se him, he's fucking hiding out somewhere with Polonia or some other asshole bishop! There's never a fucking templar around when you actually need one!"

"But what about meeting up with the packs?" Jaime asked, trying to bring Cordoba to a halt. The older Panders finally stopped, and turned back to his childe angrily.

"I don't trust Hector," Cordoba stated simply. "I don't trust Peter either, not after what he pulled with me in the Limelight. So we're going to see Turnbull, and get him to bring us up to see Polonia. That way, no one's setting any little traps for us."

"But… traps?" Jaime stammered, stunned by the idea. "They… but everything's alright now!"

"So they told you," Cordoba stated, pushing through the crowd once more. "Turnbull!" Jaime exclaimed suddenly, pointing to their left. Cordoba whirled, and peered through the crowd for a moment.

"Where?" the Panders demanded, turning to his childe.

"I saw him over there!" Jaime said, leading Cordoba away from the stage and back through the crowds. The former pack leader strained to see through the darkness and the irregular flashes of light blazing quick trails across the dance floor, but saw no sign of Turnbull's burly frame or bald pate. Jaime continued to force her way forward, rapidly leading her sire to one corner of the mezzanine. Cordoba looked around quickly, but still did not see any trace of the templar.

"Where is he?" Cordoba demanded, his eyes sweeping across every inch of the room in front of him. The Panders was growing rapidly uneasy, sensing a trap closing in around him.

"I know I saw him," Jaime said, scanning the room herself. "Where the hell did he go?"

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice said behind Cordoba. The Panders whirled quickly, and found himself facing Peter, Hector, and Tony as they stalked in on the pair. Hector grinned maliciously as he took a step in front of his two Nosferatu companions to address his sire. "Looks like we found ourselves a traitor."

"You miserable fucking bastard," Cordoba spat, his hands dropping to the knives that he had hidden under his jacket. One knife was still in its sheath, but the former pack leader's left hand closed around nothing but air as he reached for the other.

"Are you looking for this?" Jaime asked, her voice oddly different. Cordoba turned quickly on his childe, but instead of Jaime, he found Natasha standing by his side, wearing Jaime's black evening gown.

"Where is she?" Cordoba demanded. He took a step forward and began to reach for the hideously deformed woman, but Natasha backed off a step with an evil chuckle.

"She's dead," Peter said, regaining the Panders' attention. "She died the same night you abandoned her in that alley so that you could save your own ass. Were you that fucking dense, Cordoba? Didn't you realize that I knew all about your stupid affair with that ditzy little bitch?"

"You are dead," Cordoba growled, his dark glare locking on to Peter's amused eyes.

Natasha suddenly lunged at the former pack leader, intending to skewer him on his own knife, but Cordoba saw the Nosferatu move and reacted to the attack with blinding speed. In a heartbeat he caught Natasha's wrist and wrenched her forward, driving the far smaller woman into the knife in his right hand. Hector, Tony, and Peter all rushed forward, pulling short lengths of pipes from beneath their suit jackets, but Cordoba whirled the badly wounded Natasha into their path in time to receive Tony's first blow across the back of her head. Natasha crumpled to the floor under her blood brother's misdirected assault, tripping Hector and Peter as they tried to rush past their fallen comrade in pursuit of the former pack leader. Cordoba sprinted back into the crowd, quickly trying to lose his one time packmates in the crowd of Sabbat. The Panders took a few quick turns in the throng of vampires and then rushed for the elevators, certain that Polonia was still somewhere on the floors above and that his only hope in finding the cardinal lay in getting out of the mezzanine. A quick shaft of light parted the darkness from the elevators, and Cordoba pushed himself even harder, trying to make the doors before they slid shut. He pushed one more vampire aside, but suddenly slammed headlong into another man rushing away from the elevator doors.

Cordoba and K.T. both leapt back to their feet in a heartbeat, knives and claws halfway to their targets before each one could recognize the other. Quickly the two allies backed off a step, shocked by each other's presence.

"We've got problems!" K.T. and Cordoba both exclaimed at the same time.

"You ran into the Hand down here?" K.T. asked, glancing around quickly.

"No, my packs!" Cordoba corrected. "What about the Hand?"

"Everyone's here!" Erica informed the Panders hastily, throwing a quick glance over the shoulder. "Hassan, Jerry, Connor, Graime, and even Enrathi! Where's Jaime?"

"It wasn't Jaime!" Cordoba explained. "It was Natasha! The bitch set me up for Peter and Hector! We have to reach Polonia before they do!"

"We've got to get the fuck out of here!" K.T. countered. He looked past Cordoba for a moment, catching a glimpse of Cordoba's one time allies, then turned back to the Panders. "And we have to move now! I recognize those pin stripes!"

"Back to the elevator!" Cordoba ordered, pushing K.T. in front of him. The mercenary had only barely turned around in time to see the elevator doors open, revealing Graime and Hassan. 

"Other way!" K.T. retorted, spinning himself around. Cordoba took only a fraction of a second to recognize the two assassins, and quickly turned before the pair of Black Hand agents could recognize him.

"Did they see us?" Erica asked, squeezing between Cordoba and K.T.

"If we run, they'll see us for sure," the Gangrel stated, trying to glance over his shoulder without drawing attention. Graime was fanning out to the left, while Hassan was moving straight for them. "Are there any other ways out of here?"

"Keep walking," Cordoba instructed. Hassan was almost directly behind them, stalking through the crowds and flashes of light with a grim set to his features, but from his searching gaze the Panders guessed that they had not yet been spotted through the crowds of Sabbat. "Just keep walking. If we run, he'll spot us for certain."

"Head for that door," Erica said, guiding K.T. to his right. The mercenary tried to locate Graime with a quick scan of the vampires to his right, but the Malkavian had disappeared somewhere in the darkened recesses of the mezzanine. Cordoba glanced to his left, and easily spotted Tony beginning to stride purposefully in their direction.

"If we get out of this alive, I'm going to kill the both of you," K.T. stated evenly, quickening his pace slightly as he noticed a door ahead of the trio. The mercenary glanced behind him, but Hassan had also faded out of sight, vanishing among the Sabbat. "I swear to fucking God, if I didn't know any better I'd think you two were trying to get me killed."

"We're made for sure," Cordoba suddenly said, seeing Peter, Hector, Natasha and Barry all closing in from the left. The three fugitives gave up on acting inconspicuous and raced for the door, diving through the apparent exit just as two other Sabbat walked back into the mezzanine. K.T. slammed the door shut behind him, then turned to rush farther into the room in search of an exit.

The mercenary stopped in shock as he got his first good look at the room and what it contained. Suspended from the ceiling, their necks at just the right height for a vampire to take a quick drink, more than three dozen mortals hung by their ankles. Pyramids of wine glasses were stacked on either side of the room, set in place for the more refined and subtle Sabbat that wished to take their meals to the main dance floor. Although he was faced with an impending attack from the doorway only a few steps behind him, K.T. could barely force his astonishment out of his mind and continue his flight.

"What the fuck…" was all the mercenary could manage as he stared up at the nearest half conscious victims. Erica had started into the forest of helpless mortals, but turned back as she saw her companion's shock at the scene.

"This is a Blood Feast, K.T.," the Ventrue explained, coming back to his side and taking his hand. Still the mercenary could not quite bring himself to move. "K.T., they're… they're just mortals."

"There's no one in here," Cordoba suddenly said, turning back to his two allies. K.T. met the Panders' gaze with growing realization. "We've been set up."

The two vampires were already moving as the doors slammed open behind them. K.T. dove left and Cordoba right as gunfire tore through the Blood Feast, tearing apart mortals and pyramids of glasses as bullets chased after the three fugitives. K.T. hurled Erica in front of him and spun back to try and force his attackers back, but the Gangrel could manage no more than a wild shot as Tony and Natasha forced him back behind cover. Blood sprayed across the mercenary's head and shoulders as he ducked behind one mortal, sprinting for some kind of cover from the sudden barrage of gunfire. To his right, Cordoba ducked and rolled beneath a pair of mortals just as they were torn from the ceiling, dropping into a full volley of gunfire from Peter and Hector as they tried to close the distance. Hanging back behind the four shooters, K.T. could see another vampire, a thin, pale man wearing red tinted glasses with his entirely black tuxedo, watching Cordoba intently as he mumbled something under his breath. Cordoba whirled just as the Goth finished his unheard chanting, and raised his Glock to fire.

_________________________________________

Cordoba dropped and rolled, barely avoiding getting crushed by a pair of falling mortals, then spun back up to one knee on the blood slick floors with his Glock at the ready. It only took a second to draw a bead on Hector as his childe rushed forward, but before the Panders could fire, the magazine simply fell out of his pistol. Cordoba cursed in frustration and started to reach for the magazine, but fresh waves of gunfire forced him to scramble back even further into the room. Peter slowed to reload his Tommy as his drum magazine finally went empty, but Hector charged forward, throwing his machinegun aside as he pulled his lead pipe once more. Behind them, Cordoba could see Barry at the door, smiling faintly at the effect of his simple spell. The Tremere _antitribu_ apparently considered Cordoba unarmed and relatively harmless without his gun. Cordoba grinned coldly as he dropped into a low crouch, readying himself to crash through all three of his former allies in a single bloody swath.

"You want to party, you little fuck?" Cordoba asked, drawing his Kukri knife and waving Hector forward. The younger Panders closed the distance with incredible speed, launching a heavy overhand strike with his pipe, but Cordoba ducked under the wild swing and carved a deep wound through Hector's chest as he launched a mad charge at Peter. The Nosferatu finished reloading his Tommy gun as Cordoba reached him, but the Panders chopped down through his former ally's right arm at the elbow, severing the limb in one powerful stroke. Peter screamed in pain as he clutched the bloody stump at his elbow, but Cordoba was already past him, dropping his left hand to the knife hidden in his sock as Barry backed up a step to the closed door. The Tremere _antitribu_ started to race through another spell, but Cordoba remained the faster, drawing and throwing his boot knife in a single, lightning motion. Barry slumped back into the door as the knife slammed into his chest, the tip barely poking through his heart and hurling him into torpor. Cordoba took only a fraction of a second to revel in his amazing assault on his three former packmates, but the moment was shortlived as Hector slammed into him from behind.

_________________________________________

He only had a second to make his move, but K.T. was more than ready to make it count as Tony and Natasha stopped for a second to reload their weapons. The mercenary whirled and turned back on the pair in a celerity enhanced sprint, shifting from his normal human form into that of a large brown wolf as he closed the distance. Erica was blazing away on his right as K.T. closed the distance, staggering Natasha and forcing her to drop her fresh magazine just as Tony finished reloading. The Nosferatu turned and started to fire on K.T., but the Gangrel was far too close to launch an effective attack on the charging wolf. K.T. pounced at the last second, taking only a glancing hit from Tony's burst of fire before he slammed into the Nosferatu's chest with all four paws. Tony slammed into the ground under the attack and his head bounced off of the bloody floor with a sharp crack, but K.T. paid the initial damage no heed as his fangs ripped into his prone opponent's throat. Blood poured out as the Gangrel ripped the Nosferatu's windpipe out, but the mercenary was cut off before he could finish killing Tony by the sounds of the doors being slammed open.

_________________________________________

It only took a second for Erica to regain her footing on the slippery floor, soaked with blood from the slaughtered mortals hanging above her, but the Ventrue paid her condition no heed as she rejoined the fight in a heartbeat. Cordoba had somehow managed to take both Peter and Barry out of the fight, at least temporarily, but the Panders was effectively out of the fight as he turned on Hector in brutal hand to hand combat. K.T. was charging back in on Tony and Natasha in a desperate sprint to hit them before they could reload, but even the mercenary had no chance to incapacitate them both before they would be ready to fire again. Erica raised her gun and opened up quickly, hitting Natasha just as she tried to jam her drum magazine into her Tommy gun. The Nosferatu dropped the magazine with the first two hits, but Erica refused to let up on her attack as she charged forward with her gun blazing. Natasha tried to stand up to the onslaught, but she was already caught in the Ventrue's line of fire, absorbing four more rounds to her chest and one to her thigh that forced her to one knee. Erica saw K.T. barrel through Tony and go to work tearing out his downed opponent's throat, but before the Ventrue could reach Natasha and finish her own enemy, the doors to the Blood Feast slammed open.

"Holy shit!" Erica exclaimed, instantly recognizing the three men fanning out into the room. Each impeccably groomed man dressed in a black suit, but their attire was the last thing the Ventrue noticed as she frantically glanced around the room for some kind of cover. The man in the lead, his raven black hair sheared down to a military crew cut, remained stony and emotionless as he turned his combat shotgun on the young Loyalist. "Polonia's templars!"

"Good guess," the vampire said simply. Then he and his companions opened fire on the bloody melee.

_________________________________________

Of all the vampires he knew in New York, there were very few people below the rank of bishop that had any realistic chance of defeating him in an even fight. Unfortunately for him, one of those vampires was Hector.

Cordoba rolled and spun as his childe sprang at him, but this time Hector left no opening for a counterattack. The younger Panders fired a second heavy strike at his sire's head, but he quickly spun left before Cordoba's Kukri could tear through his side a second time. Hector nearly fell backward, away from the slash and through a row of mortals, but Cordoba allowed his childe no time to regain his composure as he chased after the younger Panders. Hector flailed away at the mortals around him as he backed through the rows, launching them into Cordoba's path as quickly as he could cut or throw them out of the way. The older Panders forced his way through the obstacles, determined to catch his traitorous former packmate, but Hector was ready to greet him as Cordoba found his way through the living maze.

He nearly reacted in time, but Hector was a fraction of a second faster. The younger Panders suddenly slammed into his sire from the side, his pipe leading the way and smashing down on Cordoba's head in a massive overhand strike. Cordoba dropped like a stone from the blow, but somehow managed to react just in time to kick his opponent away from him before Hector could finish the job. With his head swimming and his vision blurry, Cordoba stumbled back to his feet as Hector raced in again, this time aiming to land a hit against the older Panders' chest but missing as Cordoba forced himself forward and into his enemy. The two combatants flew backwards through the mortals as Hector slipped on the blood soaked floor, crashing to the ground in a flurry of arms and legs. Behind them, something boomed through the room near the front door, but Cordoba paid it no mind as he concentrated on the foe at hand. Hector scrambled to one knee in time to meet Cordoba's Kukri with his pipe, retaliating with a quick sweep to his sire's legs. Cordoba slammed back into the floor a second time, rolling to the side as the pipe crushed the floor tiles where his head had landed.

"Come on!" Hector screamed, diving after his sire as Cordoba rolled across the floor to avoid a second and then a third strike. "Come on, _puto_! Ain't so big and bad now, are you? Come on, _puto_! Take some of this!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Cordoba ordered, finally regaining his balance and launching himself forward. Hector put his pipe up quickly and blocked the Kukri knife before it could shear into his neck, but the younger Panders was bowled over as Cordoba crashed through him. Hector felt his jaw break as Cordoba's skull connected with his chin and snapped his head back and dropped him flat on his back on the floor yet again. The older Panders rolled over his childe quickly, but had his back turned as Hector forced himself to keep conscious and moving. Hector jumped back up into a fighting crouch and leapt forward as Cordoba started to turn, ready to crush his sire's skull with one tremendous swing of his pipe. He was so intent on landing the killing blow that he could not stop his charge as Cordoba spun quickly, shearing Hector's head cleanly from his shoulders.

"Alright, who's next?" Cordoba snarled, turning away from his decapitated childe. He was fully pumped now, moving on pure adrenaline and enjoying the rush of battle like he had when he had been a simple enforcer. Now he was back at the peak of his fighting skills, and battle lust had him craving even more targets. Just beyond the first row of Blood Feast victims, Peter was still whimpering in pain as he tried to reattach his severed arm, but the Panders paid him no mind as he found the source of the boom he had heard during his fight with Hector. He immediately picked out the leader of Polonia's templars as the bald, stocky, slightly short man turned his smoking combat shotgun on the former pack leader.

"That would be me," Quentin Turnbull said simply. Then he opened fire.

_________________________________________

Even in his wolf form, he was barely quick enough to avoid the sudden barrage of incendiary rounds. K.T. dodged and sprinted for the opposite side of the Blood Feast, his headlong dash reduced to an out of control skid as he slipped along the bloody floor. The Gangrel slammed into the far wall even as he reverted to his human form, jumping back to his feet with his Glock in his hands as two additional templars arrived to support their three comrades. The cardinal's bodyguards gave the mercenary no time to recover from his collision before they opened up again, tearing through the already decimated Blood Feast as they chased K.T. across the room until he dove through a pyramid of glasses and took cover behind one of the tables. The mercenary nearly put a hole through the wall behind the table with his head, but K.T. still managed to come up searching in vain for an extra magazine to his Glock.

"Shit!" the mercenary snapped, quickly checking the Glock itself for any extra bullets. He only had two rounds left, not even remotely enough to deal with the five templars on the other side of the table. Desperately he glanced around for a way out, but the only door he could find was the one they had entered through, currently blocked by five elite Sabbat bodyguards. Another person leapt over the table to take cover with him, but it took K.T. almost a full second to recognize Erica through the bloody mask covering his face and the gore staining her clothes and hair.

"What do we do now?" the Ventrue asked quickly, her voice tinged with fear. Peter's Tommy gun rejoined the fray then, forcing the two even lower as he fired through the linen tablecloth at them.

"I'm running out of options in a hurry," K.T. admitted. "You have any more bullets?"

"Four in the gun," Erica replied, ducking as a shotgun blast tore through the top of the table. K.T. shook his head in frustration, then tried to see under the tablecloth to the templars. "What about you?"

"Not nearly enough," K.T. answered absently, racking his brains for a plan. He could see two of the templars advancing on the table, while the other three, as well as Peter and now Tony, waited for a good shot at the two pinned fugitives. Cordoba had to be on the other side of the room somewhere, but there was no sign of the Panders. "We'd better do something in a hurry if we want to get out of here alive. I got it."

"I hope so," Erica said. K.T. hesitated for another second, then ducked up under the table and shoved it out in front of him.

The two templars had nearly gotten to him when K.T. surged forward, slamming into both of them with the sturdy wooden table. The two men stumbled backward in surprise, but the others were not nearly as unprepared for the attack. Smoking holes tore through the table as K.T. sprinted forward for all he was worth, praying that his improvised shield would not give way before he could reach the door. Two shotgun blasts ripped through the wooden table dangerously close to K.T.'s head and a burst from one of the Nosferatu nearly caused him to stumble, but the mercenary charged stubbornly for the door. Erica kept behind him as he punched through the templars and dropped the table, giving up his cover as he raced for the doors and the mezzanine beyond. Just behind him, the templars whirled to fire, but Cordoba suddenly slammed into one from behind and tore the weapon from his grip. Taking the second of distraction for what it was worth, K.T. grabbed Erica by the wrist and dragged her back into the crowded mezzanine, ignoring the stares of the vampires around him as he prayed that he would reach the elevator without incident. Though it was partially covered by the roaring music, K.T. could hear a number of gunshots from the Blood Feast.

"Stop them!" Peter suddenly screamed behind them, his voice somehow managing to carry through the room. "They're trying to kill Polonia! They're after the Cardinal!"

K.T. started to push his way furiously through the crowd, but even he was unprepared for the sudden surge that hit him from behind. Cordoba had also escaped the Blood Feast, and now the Panders was using K.T. as a plow to forge a path through the assembled vampires. The Sabbat were slow to react to the odd sight, and many of them had never even heard Peter's accusation, but more and more of them were starting to reach out for the three fugitives as they shoved their way to the elevators. They only had a few more yards to go to the exits, but the Sabbat were suddenly beginning to close on them.

"_Muevele, muevele_!" Cordoba ordered desperately, trying to outrun the cries of alarm. Panic stricken, Erica drew her Glock and fired off her last four rounds in front of her, opening a brief hole that K.T. quickly exploited. The mercenary once again grew his deadly talons as he took the lead, slashing through vampires as they finally began to realize what was happening. Two Sabbat hit him from the side, but Erica brought the butt of her now empty pistol down on one even as K.T. gored the other. Cordoba turned and started to backpedal as his Kukri knife flashed around him, but the mercenary focused his concentration of clearing a path to the elevators. One last Sabbat fell to his claws before the Gangrel reached his goal and punched the buttons repeatedly, praying for a car to arrive before they could be slaughtered. Even as he turned back to fight off any more determined attackers, the sea of Sabbat opened up, allowing a perfect view of the templars at the Blood Feast doors.

The elevator suddenly opened up, allowing K.T. and Erica to fall back inside the cab half a second before the templars could open fire. Cordoba dove to the ground and rolled inside the cab beneath a barrage of phosphorous, looking up in time to see Erica pounding on the buttons to close the door and K.T. firing his last two bullets out of the cab. One bold vampire tried to enter the cab after the three of them, but the mercenary threw his Glock at the Sabbat, then lunged forward and landed two solid punches into the man's face. Cordoba jumped back to his feet, ready to take on any more intruders, but the doors finally slid shut just in front of a second flurry of gunfire from the templars. The elevator grew silent for a moment as it ascended away from the mezzanine.

"All we have to do is get to Polonia," K.T. said derisively, turning on his two companions. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Fuck you," Cordoba snapped, locking an icy glare on the Gangrel. "I didn't see you coming up with any brilliant ideas."

"I'd have left the fucking city!" K.T. retorted. "But no, you two thought it would be a wonderful idea to come see Polonia in the middle of a horde of potentially hostile vampires! Were you born stupid, or did you work on it?"

"I noticed you came along!" Cordoba shouted furiously. "Fuck you, mercenary!"

"Not by fucking choice!" K.T. snarled back. "I should have taken my chances alone!"

"Kiss my ass, K.T.!" Erica shot back, taking the Gangrel's rant personally. "I never said you had to come! This was your fucking choice!"

"Okay, smart guy, you're so fucking brilliant!" Cordoba bellowed. "Why don't you-"

The conversation ended abruptly as the doors of the elevator slid open. K.T. turned to the doors to see Hassan and Graime standing side by side in the hallway, neither one displaying any emotion as they waited for the fugitives to make the first move.

"Okay, this argument can wait," K.T. stated simply. Cordoba nodded in wordless agreement.

Graime started to raise his machine pistol to fire, but K.T. was a fraction of a second faster in launching himself out of the elevator at the assassin. The two tumbled back into the hallway in a flurry of punches, kicks, and a wild, skyward burst of gunfire, but Hassan took no notice of his ally as Cordoba streaked out at him with his Kukri raised to strike. The Assamite dropped low under the slash and swept his own blade out, intending to cut the Panders in two just above the waist, but Cordoba was just quick enough to avoid more than a slight scratch as he spun back on his opponent with another quick strike. Quickly the Panders drew his last knife and launched another attack on the Assamite with both blades, but Hassan's flashing scimitar appeared at every angle, easily deflecting the knives before they could even pose a threat. Behind the two, Erica sprang out of the elevator just before it closed on her, seeing Graime drop his submachinegun as he tried to fend off K.T.'s snarling attacks, and bolted past Cordoba and Hassan to reach the weapon.

"Cordoba, get out of the way!" the Ventrue shouted, grabbing the weapon and turning quickly on Hassan. For the moment, K.T. and Graime were locked in a stalemate, but the silent, lightning quick Assamite was easily fending off everything the Panders could throw at him. Cordoba dropped low and spun to his left, ready to strike again to Hassan's right, but the Assamite simply seemed to disappear for a split second, reappearing in front of Erica before she could even open fire. The startled Ventrue barely had time to realize that the Assamite had closed the distance between them before he tore through her chest with his scimitar, dropping her to the ground with a cry of pain. Cordoba turned back to the Assamite, but Hassan was already once again in front of him, covering the distance with impossible speed and firing off a brutal assault of slashes and feints before Cordoba could try to initiate his own strikes. Put back on his heels, the Panders was slowly forced back to the elevators, unable to do more than block his opponent's dizzying array of strikes.

_________________________________________

Hassan might have been only a few steps behind him, and the elevators just past the Assamite could bring more Sabbat from the party at any second, but K.T. dismissed everything but the fight at hand as Graime chopped away at the Gangrel in a furious attack. The Malkavian almost seemed to overcommit to his rain of blows, but each time the mercenary tried to take advantage of an apparent opening, Graime quickly closed his defenses and launched a new attack. Quickly K.T. glanced around for something he could use to parry the machete, but nothing presented itself as Graime continued to push the Gangrel away from his companions and down the hotel's hallway.

"If you'd just stand still, we could get this over with and move on with our lives!" Graime pointed out cheerily as his machete slammed into the wall just above K.T.'s head. "I mean, this has been a hell of a good time, but we've really got to get this over with!"

"Sorry, but I like my head where it is," K.T. countered, trying to slip in under the Malkavian's defenses and land a claw strike of his own. Graime spun around the Gangrel as he lunged forward, chopping down at his back as he turned quickly, but K.T. dove forward and out of the way of the lethal attack. As he turned again on his opponent, K.T. was once more changing forms, lunging forward on all fours as he shifted again to his wolf shape. The charging canine leapt as it bore down on the Malkavian, taking a glancing hit from the machete as he snapped at Graime's throat.

"Get the fuck off of me, you mangy mutt!" Graime shouted, frantically trying to put up some kind of defense against the wolf's sharp teeth. He tried to bring his machete in for another chop, but K.T. clamped down on the forearm with his jaws and ripped away at the flesh, eliciting a scream of pain from the Malkavian as he desperately beat at the wolf with his free hand. Within moments the Malkavian's arm had been torn to shreds, and the ripped muscles and tendons could no longer keep his hand closed around the machete. Graime ignored the blade as it thudded into the floor and whirled, whipping his arm and K.T. into the nearest wall. K.T. was jarred by the impact, but still held on as his opponent tried in vain to dislodge him. Finally, Graime fell to the ground, reaching into his jacket with his uninjured arm to pull out a snub nosed .38 revolver. The Malkavian managed only a single shot that thudded into the ceiling before K.T. let go of his arm and clamped down on the assassin's throat, tearing through the windpipe and blood vessels until Graime's struggles finally ceased.

_________________________________________

He was fighting like he had never fought before. He twisted and struck, bringing his knives in at impossible angles, launching vicious low kicks, and shifting quickly and unexpectedly to gain new angles of attack on his opponent. Against almost any other person, vampiric or otherwise, Cordoba would have easily outmaneuvered his opponent and landed a debilitating strike with his Kukri or his fighting knife.

But Hassan was no ordinary opponent, and the Panders was quickly learning just how deadly a Dominion of the Black Hand could be. Wherever Cordoba's knives flashed in to attack, Hassan's scimitars suddenly appeared with almost magical speed. The Panders tried to kick the Assamite's leg out, intending to break his knee, but Hassan simply stepped aside with an almost casual slide. Every time Cordoba changed angles or tried to flank his opponent, Hassan kept with him, seeming to read the Panders' thoughts and turning with his enemy. And through it all, the Assamite continued to probe the Panders' own defenses, carefully studying the Hispanic vampire's fighting style for weaknesses that he would, in his own due time, exploit.

Cordoba glanced desperately around him, hoping that someone would be ready to come to his aid soon. Though he would never admit it, the Panders knew that even he was no match for the Assamite killing machine that he faced. To his left and near the elevator, Erica slowly pushed herself back to her feet against the alcove wall, the vicious slash she had taken moments before quickly healing. Back in the hallway, Cordoba could hear Graime screaming at K.T.'s wolf form, but the Gangrel was still fully occupied with the Malkavian assassin. Without anyone to help him for the moment, Cordoba dropped back another step and fought more defensively, trying to turn Hassan's back to Erica as she finished healing the damage she had taken. It only took another second for the young Loyalist to drop back to one knee, almost completely healed, and bring Graime's Skorpion to bear on the Assamite's back. Quickly Cordoba pressed the attack, forcing Hassan to keep his attention on the Panders as Erica lined up a shot.

The shot never came as the elevator chimed and the doors opened on the fight.

_________________________________________

It had taken her far too much time to heal her injury, but Erica was finally ready to rejoin the fight. Her first instinct was to help K.T., but even a sideways glance at Cordoba's desperate battle against Hassan quickly changed her target. The young Ventrue dropped back to the ground and snatched up the Skorpion where she had dropped it, but never fired a shot as she heard the elevator open up on her left. As the doors slid apart, Peter's Tommy gun was already swinging down to aim at her face.

"Oh shit!" Erica breathed, jumping even as bullets tore through the alcove. One round skipped across her shoulder and another parted her hair, but the young Ventrue miraculously avoided the onslaught as Tony joined his packmate in opening fire on the hallway. Breaking combat for only an instant, Hassan and Cordoba both rolled out of the way of the barrage for a split second, bouncing off of opposite walls and rejoining their personal battle in the space of a second. Erica backed up a few more steps, then let loose on the elevator in a desperate attempt to keep the gunmen inside the cab.

"K.T.!" Erica screamed over her shoulder. "We have to get out of here! Now!"

"I'm working on it!" K.T. snapped, reverting to his human shape. Erica continued to blaze away at the elevator, but Tony and Peter opened up again on the hallway with a torrent of lead. Erica tried to skip out of the way, but two rounds punched through her arm and another ripped into her thigh and ricocheted off of the bone. The Ventrue barely hit the ground with a cry of pain before K.T. ripped the Skorpion out of her hand to continue the fight, but even he was quickly forced to duck into a doorway to avoid being ripped to pieces. Already on the ground and ignored for the moment, Erica crawled to the opposite side of the hallway, taking cover only a few feet away from Graime's mutilated corpse.

"What do we do now?" the Ventrue shouted as K.T. pushed himself even farther back into cover. The mercenary looked up from reloading the Skorpion, an astounded look on his face.

"How the fuck should I know?" the Gangrel demanded, turning and loosing a fresh wave of gunfire on the elevator. Tony took the brunt of the assault as the mercenary caught him flatfooted two steps from the cab, but Peter once again sent a rain of lead through the hallway. K.T. glanced past Erica, hoping for an exit to present itself in the other direction, but Cordoba and Hassan had moved their fight just out of gun range and directly in the path of a distant fire exit. "Shit," the mercenary hissed out, searching for another magazine. "Erica! Throw me a clip from Graime's jacket!"

Erica ducked down quickly and fumbled through the Malkavian's pockets, finally coming up with a spare magazine and throwing it quickly in K.T.'s direction. The Gangrel jammed the magazine home and opened fire again, pushing Tony and Peter back into the elevator as they reloaded their own weapons. Taking the instant of respite from the gunfire, Erica pried Graime's machete out of his hand and turned on Hassan, who had finally turned his back to the gunfight in his own battle with Cordoba.

_________________________________________

Hassan had started the fight moving at near impossible speeds. Now it seemed like he was getting faster.

Cordoba backed up another step, his knives flashing around him in a flurry as he tried to hold off his Arabic attacker, but Hassan was slowly and inevitably gaining the upper hand. The Assamite was attacking with terrifying speed and accuracy, his scimitar flashing around him with brutal precision. Cordoba frantically spun with his opponent and continued to parry away attack after attack, but the Assamite was slowly starting to wear through his defenses. Each sweep of the Assamite's blade pushed the Panders' knives a fraction of an inch wider, slowly opening a hole in the center of Cordoba's knives. Cordoba could feel the hole opening bit by bit, but he could not cheat even the slightest bit on his parries; Hassan was simply too accurate. Quickly the Panders dropped one leg back, putting himself perpendicular to the Arab and presenting as small a target as possible. Still Hassan continued his brutal attack, pushing the Panders back even farther along the hall. Without help, Cordoba knew he had no chance of defeating the Assamite, but K.T. was too involved in the gunfight against Tony and Peter to be of any help.

Erica, however, was another story.

Although she was the last person he would want to rely on in such a desperate fight, Cordoba was almost relieved when he saw the Loyalist grab Graime's machete and turn to the Assamite. Hassan had his back to her and was completely involved in trying to cut through Cordoba's defenses, giving Erica a wide open shot from behind. Cordoba dropped back one more step and tried to launch a few quick counters of his own, praying that the Assamite would not notice the Ventrue until his head was cleanly sheared from his shoulders. Erica rushed up the last few steps and pulled the machete back to strike, and launched a vicious, backhanded slash that was perfectly in line with the dominion's head.

Hassan suddenly dropped into a low, spinning crouch, ducking cleanly out of the way of Erica's attack. The Ventrue's eyes went wide in surprise as she realized that her attack had missed, but Cordoba was too busy trying to skip back out of the way as the Assamite's scimitar flashed out around him. The Panders reacted a fraction of a second too late, and the blade ripped through his belt and tore into his waist, then continued around the Assamite to tear through both of Erica's thighs, cutting through the muscles that held her upright. The Ventrue collapsed backwards with a cry of pain, but Hassan paid her no mind as he launched himself forward at the wounded Panders. Cordoba knocked one strike away even as Hassan broke his knee with a single, devastating kick, knocking Cordoba back to the ground before he could stand. K.T. was still pinned in his firefight, unable to help the two incapacitated vampires. Hassan raised the scimitar and sliced downward, expecting to take Cordoba's head from his shoulders.

With the last bit of his strength, Cordoba threw himself forward with his one good leg, ramming into the Assamite with his Kukri leading the way. Unprepared for the assault, Hassan was thrown backward, screaming in surprise and pain as the Kukri tore into his side and up under his ribs. Cordoba continued to drive the knife upward as the Assamite's scimitar dove into his back, severing nerves and breaking vertebrae with the force of the blow. As the two combatants fell back to the ground and Cordoba's body went limp with paralysis, the Panders could only hope that the curved blade of his knife had reached and staked Hassan's heart.

_________________________________________

He was out of bullets again, but this time Tony and Peter refused to stop firing. The two Nosferatu continued to blaze away through the hall, forcing the mercenary to keep under cover or risk being torn to pieces. Within seconds, the two Nosferatu would try to advance again, and this time there was no realistic way for the mercenary to stop them.

The mercenary's eyes snapped to the hall suddenly as he heard both Cordoba and Hassan scream in pain. The two vampires were dragging each other to the ground in a mess of blood and steel, ripping each other to pieces until they hit the ground. Erica pulled herself away from the pair as they fell, trying to heal the damage to her legs and allow herself to stand again. With Hassan down and possibly out, K.T.'s escape route was suddenly open.

"Erica!" the mercenary shouted. The Ventrue turned to him quickly. "Make for the door!"

Erica needed no more encouragement to run. The Ventrue jumped to her feet and raced for the distant exit, hobbling along at first but quickly healing what damage remained to her torn muscles. K.T. sprinted off after her, pausing only long enough to throw the empty Skorpion at Peter just as he tried to move forward out of the elevator. Erica pushed her way through the stairwell door just as Tony rounded the corner and opened fire on the retreating Gangrel. K.T. pushed himself forward with a last burst of speed, reaching the fire exit just as Erica stumbled back into the hallway.

K.T. drove forward without a second of thought, slamming through Erica and the fire door just as another man appeared. Erica gasped out a cry of pain as the wind was blown out of her lungs, sandwiched between K.T. and the newcomer. Still the mercenary pushed forward, desperately flailing out and knocking a combat shotgun wide just before his new opponent could fire. The three crashed into the railing of the staircase with enough force to crack the gunman's ribs, but K.T. wasted no more time as he hurled Erica at the staircase and pushed upwards after her. Tony and Peter burst into the stairwell just as they topped the first half flight, turning the corner a heartbeat before bullets started to rip through the concrete or ricochet through the tight brick shaft. One shot bounced off of the railing and punched into K.T.'s side, but the Gangrel refused to even slow down for the injury.

"Sixth floor!" Erica exclaimed, reaching the next level and shoving through the door. K.T. followed along behind her, racing through the long hallway at full speed. The gunfire in the stairwell had ceased, but within seconds Tony, Peter, and Polonia's templars had all reached the sixth floor and were spraying gunfire down the hall. Erica skidded to a halt in front of her room and jammed her card key into the door, but K.T. barely gave her any time to turn the knob before he crashed through her and into the room.

"I'm running out of ideas in a hurry," K.T. snarled, turning back into the hotel room. Quickly he pushed the oaken cabinet that held the television in front of the door, then glanced around for more movable furniture. "I hope you can come up with something, cause once we go out that window I'm out of options."

"Where the hell are the Setites?" Erica demanded as she started throwing chairs from the far side of the room to the door. "Clairvius said he'd be here!"

"And you believed him?" K.T. asked, stopping for only a split second. "They played us! They played us all!"

"But they need us to break the Hand!" Erica countered.

"They got what they wanted!" K.T. exclaimed. "They set this up from the beginning! They probably sent that communiqué, and they probably were the rest of Stokes' little conspiracy! They set us all up, and right now they're probably laughing their asses off watching the Sabbat tear itself apart!"

"Jesus Christ," Erica breathed out after a moment. "He… he played us all out."

"Yes, he did," K.T. said, turning back to the Ventrue. Outside the room, gunfire tore through the door and thudded into the television cabinet. The mercenary grabbed the one remaining chair at the room's small table, and smashed through the window. "Now come on. We're going."

Erica nodded wordlessly, and turned to the window. The gunfire at the door stopped, but it was replaced almost immediately by the sounds of men trying to break down the door. Finally, after a further second of hesitation, the Ventrue leapt out of the window and dropped down into the dumpster that was almost directly beneath her room. K.T. threw himself out of the window immediately afterward, hearing the door and the cabinet splintering beneath the templars' attacks.

_________________________________________

The battle had long since left his floor. Peter and Tony had rushed past him without so much as a second glance. Footsteps had thundered up the staircase for a brief instant, and then gunfire had filtered down through the ceiling. For the moment, the corpses littering this hallway were forgotten.

Cordoba tried to move, but still found himself unable to do more than twitch slightly. Hassan's scimitar had done so much damage to his spine, and he had used up so much blood during the flight from the Blood Feast, that the Panders was unable to repair everything. He could already feel the dull ache of the Hunger welling up in his stomach as he used the last of his blood to heal what damage he could. The hallway was still for the moment, but the Panders hoped that a police officer or hotel guest would come to check on the apparently dead combatants before the Sabbat could find him again.

Hassan suddenly stirred next to him. Cordoba managed to turn his head, and saw the mutilated Assamite slowly pull away from his paralyzed opponent. With a stifled gasp of pain, Hassan forced himself into a sitting position against the wall, and gingerly examined the Kukri knife embedded to the hilt in his side.

"Guess it didn't reach the heart," Cordoba said, almost nonchalant. Hassan nodded, then pushed himself up along the wall. For a moment the Assamite considered the knife in his side again, then stooped carefully to the floor and retrieved his scimitar.

"You were a worthy opponent," Hassan stated. Slowly her raised the scimitar, taking careful aim for the Panders' neck. "In death, you will receive the honor that your degenerate bloodline could never bring you in life."

"That's great to hear," Cordoba spat out. "Just make sure you spell my name right."

Hassan nodded slightly, and then dropped the blade.


	8. Sleight of Hands, Part Seven

****

XVII

"It took three hours of measurements for this dress."

K.T. turned back to Erica slowly, watching her for a moment as the young Ventrue picked at the tattered, blood soaked remains of her once green dress. She was slumped down against the dry rotted brick wall of one of the shorefront warehouses of the East Side, for the moment safely out of sight of the rest of the city.

"You need blood," K.T. said simply, stating the obvious. He gestured to the ground in front of him, indicating a bum that he had found sleeping only a few blocks away. "You should feed."

"Can't," Erica stated with a weak smile. "He's too old."

"Too old?" K.T. echoed, a bit confused. It only took a second, however, for the mercenary to remember the weakness inherent in Ventrue blood. Every Ventrue preferred a specific type of blood, and would not feed from anyone other than his or her preferred type. For Erica, the preference presumably ran toward younger men. "Great. Just great. We need to get you some blood."

"I'll live," Erica said quietly. K.T., however, was certain that the Loyalist would not wake up the next morning if she went another night without blood. She had broken her wrist in their six story jump from the Marriott, but had never even attempted to heal the injury. The fact that the young Ventrue was not in a bloodthirsty frenzy at the moment was testimony to nothing other than her force of will. "You should drink up. You'll need the blood."

K.T. could not help but agree with that statement. Dawn was nearly on the pair, and for the entire night they had been on the run from the Sabbat. Packs of angry vampires had been combing the streets looking for them since their escape, bottling K.T. up on the Lower East Side between the Brooklyn Bridge to the north and the Battery Tunnel to the south. Although the Brooklyn Bridge glittered only three blocks away, two full packs of Brujah _antitribu_ were guarding the roads, effectively cutting off any chance of escape for the battered fugitives. Without any other options and not wanting to waste his hastily captured meal, K.T. rolled the bum over onto his back and bit into the man's throat, sucking out every last drop of blood. Finally, K.T. rocked back and sat down on the waterfront, reveling in the alcohol laced blood that he had taken. Finally, the mercenary stumbled back to his feet and turned to Erica.

"You need blood," K.T. said slowly, trying to make sure that he remained sober. "And we can't go back into the city, because the Sabbat might still be out, and we're running out of time before sunrise."

"I'm not drinking from wharf rats," Erica declared, folding her arms across her chest.

"I know," K.T. said. He hesitated for a long moment, carefully considering his next words. "You… can take a little from me."

"You sure?" Erica asked quietly, pushing herself to her feet against the crumbling brick of the warehouse.

"Yeah," K.T. answered, still feeling awkward about the situation. "You need the blood. Badly."

"I know," Erica said, forcing herself to stand upright. K.T. took a step toward her, intending to help her keep her balance, but the Ventrue lunged forward suddenly and wrapped her arms around the mercenary's neck.

The first time they had shared blood in the alley behind Crystal's store, it had been a passionate affair. This time, however, Erica wasted no time driving her fangs into K.T.'s throat, nearly bowling him over with the force of her assault. Fighting off the waves of euphoria that accompany a vampire's feeding, the mercenary finally managed to pull free of the Ventrue's grip, stumbling backward until he found a wall to steady himself. Erica slumped down where she was, her eyes glassing over slightly as the alcohol laden blood coursed through her body.

"You alright now?" K.T. asked, trying to ignore the rekindled hunger in his own body.

"Yeah, I think so," Erica replied, forcing herself back to sobriety. She hesitated a moment, then stumbled back to her feet. "I… I didn't take too much, did I?"

"I'll live," K.T. replied, already trying to think of a good place to stay for the day. He had a bad feeling that the Sabbat had forced the pair of fugitives into the lower eastern corner of the borough, and would use mortal pawns to seek them out during the day. 

"Are you sure it wasn't too much?" Erica inquired again, snapping the mercenary out of his thoughts. K.T. turned to her, ready to reassure her that he was fine, when he noticed her vaguely expectant expression.

"You were aiming for too much, weren't you," the Gangrel concluded. Erica looked down at the ground, her guilty expression offset by the smile that she could not quite hide. "Come here. I'll show you a little trick I learned."

Erica slowly returned to the Gangrel, uncertain what to expect. K.T. took the young Loyalist in his arms and kissed her, just sinking his fangs into her lower lip. The Ventrue pushed herself farther into his arms, straining to make the moment and the euphoria last, but K.T. pulled away after taking only the smallest amount of blood from her. Erica tottered a moment on her feet, but finally regained her balance as a broad smile slowly spread across her face.

"Wow," she said simply. K.T. allowed himself a moment to enjoy her reaction, but then stubbornly forced his mind back to the task of finding a suitable place to sleep during the day. The warehouses offered the most obvious shelter, but the mercenary was still certain that someone was expecting him to take refuge there. Slowly the mercenary turned to the inky, filthy water sloshing against the decaying piers.

"This sucks," K.T. grumbled, looking up over the skyline of Brooklyn. Beyond the glare of a million streetlights and brightly lit apartments, the first rays of dawn were starting to push away the artificial glow.

"K.T.?" Erica asked quietly, taking a step back to the mercenary's side. Her cheery demeanor had vanished into a noticeably nervous tone of voice.

"Yeah," K.T. said, turning back to her. Erica gazed into the mercenary's eyes for a moment, searching for something.

"Those… guys," Erica started, hesitant. "The Black Hand. They knew you."

"They've been shooting at me," K.T. pointed out, uncertain where Erica was heading with her statement.

"No, they… who's Phillip?" Erica asked. K.T. looked back to the water.

"I'm not sure," the mercenary replied. "I met him about a week after I found you. He's working with the others, but I'm not sure what he wants. All he's said to me is that I should leave the city, and leave you behind to get killed."

"You… you're not going to do that, are you?" Erica asked, growing worried. "I mean, if you do leave, I mean, if we have to leave, you're taking me with you, right?"

"Erica, look, if I was going to leave you, I would have done it long ago," K.T. answered. "I certainly would have left before the _Palla Grande_, if nothing else."

"Mean it?" Erica asked. K.T. nodded.

"I mean it," he affirmed. Erica breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," the Ventrue said, putting her arms around the Gangrel's waist and pulling herself close to him.

"You're welcome," K.T. said. He held her close for a moment, then gently pushed her back. "But we have some more immediate problems right now. We need a place to stay during the day."

"I know," Erica replied, looking around. "Do you think they know where we are right now?"

"I think they know they herded us down into this area," K.T. said. "If they don't have ghouls to search for us during the day, they'll be here as soon as night falls again tomorrow looking for us."

"I knew you were going to say that," Erica said, slightly depressed. "What do we do, then? Even if they weren't trying to cut us off, we don't have enough time to reach Brooklyn over the bridge or Staten Island by the ferry."

"Into the water," K.T. said, turning back to the bay.

"Into the water?" Erica repeated, following his line of sight. "You're joking, right?"

"No," K.T. replied. "No sunlight could reach to the bottom of the harbor, not with how dirty this water is. And, in case you've forgotten, we can't drown."

"It's not drowning I'm worried about," Erica countered. "This is New York Harbor! We'll disintegrate as soon as we touch the water!"

"Stop being so melodramatic and get in the water," K.T. said, smirking a bit. "It ain't that bad."

"K.T., are you sure about this?" Erica asked, praying for some other way to spend the day.

"Yes, I'm sure," K.T. said. "I've done it before. No one would ever think to look for us there, and the sun doesn't hit bottom, ever."

"What if we float?" Erica asked.

"We don't float," K.T. replied. "Just trust me, okay?"

"Okay," Erica said dubiously, finally relenting. She edged up to the waterline, and stared down into the water for a long moment.

"Sun's coming up," K.T. observed, trying to get the Ventrue to speed up the process.

"I'm going," Erica retorted, still working up the courage to jump into the bay. K.T. came up to the edge beside her, and followed her line of sight.

"What's that?" K.T. suddenly asked, pointing down into the harbor. Erica strained her eyes for a moment, leaning slightly forward as she tried to find what the mercenary had seen.

"What?" the Ventrue asked, growing increasingly nervous. She started to turn back to the mercenary, but K.T. suddenly planted one hand firmly on her back and shoved her off of the end of the pier. Erica let out a surprised yelp that ended with an unceremonious splash three feet from the dock. When she resurfaced, K.T. was kneeling at the edge of the pier, grinning down at her.

"Guess it was nothing," the mercenary commented with a broad smile.

"You stupid Gangrel!" Erica choked out, swimming back to the dock. "I can't believe you did that!"

"You had to get in eventually," K.T. observed, leaning a little closer to the water. Erica lunged out of the water at the grinning mercenary, grabbing his arm and dragging him in with her. Before K.T. could resurface completely, the Ventrue dunked him a second time.

"See how you like it!" Erica exclaimed as the mercenary finally managed to keep his head above water for more than a second.

"And you thought we'd disintegrate," K.T. gasped, laughing through a mouthful of water. Erica finally ended her assault, and treaded water next to her companion for a moment as he regained his bearings. "I hope no one heard all that splashing."

"It's your fault if they did," Erica pointed out. K.T. turned a scowl on the Loyalist, and the Ventrue stuck her tongue out at him in reply.

"Alright," the mercenary said, pulling off his tuxedo jacket as he continued to tread water. "Now we sink. Wrap one of the sleeves of my jacket around your arm so we don't get separated during the day."

"And you're sure this is a good idea?" Erica asked again, still uncertain about the safety of spending the day at the bottom of the harbor.

"Stop treading water and sink," K.T. said in reply. Then he dropped beneath the surface. Erica finally allowed herself to go under, but she made certain that she had an iron grip on the jacket as the pair descended to the muddy bottom.

_________________________________________________

A loud, steady thundering shook Erica out of sleep the next night. The Ventrue jumped to her feet, but found herself moving in agonizing slow motion in the murky depths of the harbor. With the roar of a ship passing only a dozen feet above her, Erica could hear nothing else, and her sight was rendered useless by the muddy, opaque waters that had shielded them from the daylight sun. Without her sight or hearing, Erica pulled frantically on the sleeve of K.T.'s tuxedo jacket until she found the drowsy Gangrel still holding on to the other end. Erica pulled her companion to within inches of her face, and desperately tried to signal to him to swim back to the surface. She was not certain if K.T. could even see anything through the filthy water, but the mercenary finally started to ascend to the surface.

Erica reached the surface first, and quickly pulled herself back up onto the docks. The Ventrue stayed low to the ground as she quickly scanned the waterfront for any signs of a Sabbat search party, and almost immediately caught sight of three motorcycles parked outside one of the derelict warehouses. Even as she spotted the motorcycles, a set of doors just behind the bikes began to swing open. In an instant Erica turned and dove back into the harbor, dragging K.T. back into the water before he could pull himself onto the docks.

"What the hell are you doing?" K.T. demanded.

"Sabbat on the docks," Erica explained, keeping her voice as low as possibly. K.T. glanced up for a moment, then turned back to Erica. "I think one or two of them are Black Hand."

"Alright," the mercenary said. "Hold on to me. We'll swim north at least as far as the Brooklyn Bridge, then see if we can get out of the water there. Okay?"

"Let's go," Erica urged, glancing back up at the docks. K.T. nodded, then took hold of her arm and dove back below the surface.

K.T. led the way again under water, but Erica doubted that even the mercenary knew where he was headed through the murky depths of the harbor. The Gangrel stubbornly pushed forward through the darkness, keeping a firm grip on the Ventrue's arm as he swam steadily away from the warehouse and the Sabbat on the docks. Twice Erica tried to surface, but K.T. refused to let her go, forcing the pair to keep underwater for almost forty minutes.

Finally K.T. surfaced again, keeping as low to the water as possible as he examined his new surroundings. He had pushed almost a quarter of the way across the East River to Brooklyn, but he had at least gotten just north of the Brooklyn Bridge. Erica popped out of the water next to him, and looked back to the lights of Manhattan.

"You're not planning on swimming to Brooklyn, are you?" the Ventrue asked, noting their distance from the waterfront.

"Might be a good idea," the Gangrel contemplated, turning to the eastern borough.

"That's a long swim," Erica observed. K.T. continued to judge the distance to Brooklyn, considering their chances of making across the channel. "Probably even longer than the time it took for us to get here. I don't even know if we could make it."

"We might be able to," K.T. said absently, still gauging the distance.

"K.T., boat!" Erica suddenly exclaimed. K.T. turned quickly to see a large ship churning up the East River. Without thinking the Gangrel turned and started swimming for Manhattan, knowing that he would never have the time to cut in front of the merchant vessel before it ran over the two fugitives. Erica kept pace with him as he paddled for the shore until the two were thrown toward the island by the ship's wake, finally washing into the piers that lined the lower Manhattan waterfront. Choking on a last mouthful of harbor water, K.T. dragged himself up onto the piers and groaned in disgust.

"I hate this fucking island," the mercenary muttered, watching traffic roar along the FDR Drive. "If I never come back to this city again, it'll be too soon."

"What now?" Erica asked, dropping back against the opposite side of the pier. K.T. shook his head.

"I'm running out of options," the mercenary admitted. He shook his head a second time, and sighed in resignation. "How I get myself into shit like this."

"Maybe a taxi into Brooklyn?" Erica suggested. K.T. shrugged.

"You think someone'll pick us up looking like this?" the mercenary inquired skeptically, picking at what little was left of his bloodstained shirt. Erica shrugged.

"We have no money, no weapons, and we don't even have clothes," the Ventrue said. She smiled weakly. "At least we have each other."

K.T. looked up for a moment in disbelief. Erica held her serious expression for a second more, then started to laugh. Finally, K.T. joined her, until the two vampires were practically in hysterics on the dock. After a minute or two of nearly uncontrollable laughter, the mercenary finally brought his mirth under control and pushed himself back to his feet.

"Come on," K.T. said, leaning down over Erica and extending his hand. "We can't just sit here laughing all night."

"Wasn't even that funny," the Ventrue said, despite the fact that she was still having a hard time reigning in her laughter. "Jesus Christ, what a mess we're in."

"I know," K.T. said. "You thirsty?"

"Yeah," Erica replied, finally growing serious.

"Let's see what we can find in the city," K.T. said. "We need clothes, too."

"We can head back up to Crystal's place," Erica said. K.T. turned a thoroughly skeptical glare on her. "Really. She'll help us, K.T."

"Yeah, well, even if she does, chances are anyone looking for us will use her as a starting point," the Gangrel explained. "You can't go anywhere near her for a very long time."

"But… she's my best friend," Erica said.

"And that's exactly why they'll be waiting for us there," K.T. pointed out. "If you want to keep her, and you, alive, you won't go to her place."

"But, K.T., we have to warn someone," Erica pleaded, starting to grow desperate. "I mean, the Black Hand isn't even the Black Hand! They're working for the Ancients! We have to at least try to warn someone!"

"Erica, they will kill you," K.T. said in a slow, deliberate tone. "You have to know that."

"But we still have to warn someone!" Erica countered. "K.T., the Sabbat is my-"

"It isn't any more," K.T. cut in sternly. "Like it or not, if you try to go back to the Sabbat, you're going to die!"

Erica stared at K.T. for a long moment, desperation in her eyes.

"Sabbat is family," the Ventrue said quietly, her voice full of doubt.

"Your family is going to slaughter you, no matter what you tell them," K.T. pointed out. Erica dropped her eyes to the ground, shaking her head slightly. "Look, I'll tell you what," the mercenary said. "Let's get the hell out of Manhattan for now. Then, when things calm down slightly, I'll set a meeting for you with a bishop in Georgia that owes me a favor."

"Promise?" Erica prompted, speaking in little more than a whisper.

"Promise," K.T. confirmed. Erica smiled slightly. "To tell the God honest truth, I don't want to see you get killed tonight. You'll have plenty of time to die once we get out of the city."

"Thanks," K.T.," Erica said. "That was very uplifting."

"I try," K.T. said with a bit of a smirk. "Now, we need clothes, weapons, blood, money, and transportation. Any idea where to start?"

"I know every good store south of Central Park," Erica said with a smile. "Let's go shopping."

__________________________________________________

"Come on! You know something's going on here!"

"Crystal, come on," Xavier Miranda said, following his clanmate into the back of her store. "I don't know what happened at the _Palla Grande_ last night, but I don't think there's some kind of Black Hand conspiracy trying to oust Polonia!"

"Come on, Xavier!" Crystal nearly shouted, turning back on the handsome young man. "I mean, do you really think that three people would be so stupid as to try and kill Polonia in the middle of a room full of Sabbat vampires?"

"Well, I wouldn't put it past Cordoba," Xavier remarked. "He's a nut job."

"He's a nut job, but he's not that blatantly stupid!" Crystal retorted. "And what about Erica? I mean, if there was ever a loyal Sabbat, she's the one!"

"Crystal, she's a fucking Loyalist," Xavier countered. "We both know what the Loyalists think of any bishop or cardinal. You ask me, she's been buying into her rhetoric just a little too much."

"So she sides with the Camarilla?" Crystal asked in disbelief. "Come on, Xavier! Don't be so dense!"

"Crystal, all I'm saying is that it's quite possible that Cordoba and that Gangrel, what was his name, K.T.?"

"Yes, it was K.T.," Crystal affirmed.

"Yeah, well, maybe K.T. and Cordoba duped her and her pack into this overthrow attempt," Xavier said. "I mean, you know, maybe they got Jerry's pack thinking that they could get the Sabbat back to what they think it used to be. Just because he's a Gangrel that carried a big gun, doesn't mean he can't be persuasive. And besides, you said she was stuck on him."

"Yeah, but she's not blind," Crystal argued. "And you know her almost as well as I do. You know she'd never side with the Camarilla. Not even if someone threatened to kill her."

"Maybe she's not as brave as you thought," Xavier suggested. Crystal turned back furiously on her fellow Toreador, but Xavier continued before she could form a retort. "Look, Crystal, I'm just saying that before you just jump right to her defense, we'd better make sure we know all the facts. Let's keep low and let things settle for just a little while before we start poking around again."

"She could get killed by then!" Crystal exclaimed.

"And so could we!" Xavier shot back. "Give it time, Crystal! Half the city is ready to kill the other half right now!"

Crystal hesitated for a long moment, glaring at her clanmate, but then dropped her eyes to the glass counter top.

"Two days," the young woman finally relented, dropping her head on the counter in defeat. "Two days, but then we try to find out what happened."

"Thanks," Xavier said, breathing out a sigh of relief. "Look, I have to get some things done, so I'll catch up with you over at the Limelight in an hour or so. Okay?"

"Yeah," Crystal said, sullen but at least willing to let the uproar of the _Palla Grande_ rest for a couple of days. Xavier started back to the front of the store, leaving Crystal by the cash registers in the rear.

Two loud booms froze the Toreador in his tracks. Xavier whirled quickly as he heard glass shatter in the back of the store, drawing the Glock that he had hidden beneath his jacket and keeping low behind the racks of dresses and jackets between him and the registers. He could hear Crystal gasping in pain just beyond two more rows of garments.

"K.T., please!" the young Toreador begged. Xavier darted around the racks of clothing just in time to see the Gangrel mercenary chop down through Crystal's neck and sever her head from her body.

"Fucking Christ," Xavier breathed out in a shaky voice. K.T. looked up from his kill and quickly spotted the Toreador, but Xavier was already on the move. Two more booming shots from the Gangrel's Ruger chased the young man back to the front of the store. Xavier spun quickly and let a wild burst of gunfire off through the store, but he knew the ruthless, experienced mercenary outgunned him. Xavier shot out of the store and raced to his car, managing to start the vehicle just as his foe reached the front door. Xavier pulled out frantically into traffic and raced off along East Twenty-eighth Street, but one final round shattered the rear window of his car and barely grazed his skull.

As he turned the corner of Twenty-eighth and Third Avenue, Xavier Miranda never noticed K.T.'s features melt away into the face of a dark skinned Assamite.

______________________________________________________

They moved silently, stalking through the shadows of the Brooklyn waterfront and closing in on a single, derelict warehouse in the shadow of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. Keeping to the darkest fringes of the decaying buildings and cracked streets, the three wolves made their way easily past an outer ring of sentries, converging on their primary target without even raising the suspicion of their targets. Just outside the building, a pair of Jamaican street thugs stood guard, their Uzis barely concealed under black leather trench coats as they idly gazed off into the darkness.

One of the guards turned back to the warehouse for a moment, blowing on his hands to keep them warm in the brutal cold of the first night of November. The other began to reach into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, but stopped as a bullet hole suddenly appeared in the center of his chest. The Jamaican's eyes widened slightly in confusion, but he could not voice his astonishment before he slumped to the ground.

"'ey Jemaal, I'm still waitin' on dat cigarette," the second guard commented, turning back to his comrade. The sentry stopped in shock as he found his companion lying dead on the ground. Quickly he turned to raise an alarm, but a second silenced shot took the left side of the man's head off before he could utter a sound.

Before the second guard completely collapsed to the ground, the three wolves silently stalked in on the dead sentries, then loped past the dead guards to the warehouse beyond. One wolf moved into the lead, a large, brown furred canine with calm, ice blue eyes, leading the two black wolves behind him into a large, well hidden drug factory. Inside, four more Jamaicans were lazily sorting through a collection of vials and plastic bags, making idle conversation while they prepared for the night's sales. Just behind them, a tall, painfully thin man with spiky, platinum blond hair giggled to himself as he picked through a clear plastic bag filled with more vials. The brown wolf's two subordinates quickly flanked their pack leader even as the blond haired man turned wide blue eyes on the canine intruders.

"No fucking way!" Brian exclaimed, his greedy smile changing instantly to an enraged snarl. The Jamaicans whirled on the wolves, but the two black wolves were already charging forward to meet the thugs. The brown wolf ignored the Jamaicans and his packmates as he surged forward, his body twisting and changing into a deathly calm, _crinos_ form werewolf. Even as he enlarged to his war form, the lupine drew a monstrous knife of black glass from his back sheath, ready to shear Brian's head from his shoulders in a single, powerful strike.

The werewolf struck with unnerving speed and accuracy, but Brian was even faster. In a blur of magickally enhanced speed, the mage somersaulted out of the way of his monstrous attacker, rolling back to his feet to see the lupine turning with him and pressing the attack. The mage grinned sadistically as he drew his arms back to his side, conjuring up a ball of sinister vermilion flames and hurling it forward at his onrushing attacker. Hurtling forward with all the speed he could muster, the lupine simply put up his weapon to try to block the worst of the flames.

The gesture turned out to be unnecessary, however, as the flames simply sputtered into a rapidly dissipating ball of smoke. Brian stared at the failed fireball in shock.

"Fucking paradox!" the mage screamed. The lupine shot forward, intent on cutting the mage to pieces, but a wild burst of gunfire from one of the Jamaicans threw off the attack at the last moment. Brian rolled to the monster's left as the werewolf fell right, taking only a vicious slash along his shoulder instead of losing the top half of his skull. The brown furred lupine turned back on the shooter, but the larger of the black wolves, already in his own gigantic _crinos_ form, slammed into the thug's head with a powerful backhand stroke of his huge mace. The weapon cracked out a peal of thunder as the Jamaican's head exploded into a shower of blood and skull fragments, but the two lupines barely broke stride in their hurry to reach Brian before he could escape through a side door. Far larger and built for speed, the two lupines quickly closed the distance to the fleeing mage.

Brian turned frantically on his two pursuers as they closed the last distance, focusing his magick on the larger of the two lupines. With a final burst of will to shatter the werewolf's stubborn mental resistance, the mage forced the gigantic lupine to quickly turn and slam into his smaller companion. The two monsters dropped to the ground in a pile of flailing arms and legs, instantly stopping their pursuit.

"Hah! Gotcha!" Brian exclaimed jubilantly. His triumphant expression faded rapidly to fear once more as he glanced past the two lupines on the ground to see the third bounding past the remnants of the Jamaicans and baring bloody fangs. "Oops, " Brian said quickly. "Gotta go!"

The mage ducked out of the warehouse and slammed the metal door shut just in time to stop the third lupine, hearing a satisfying slam as it rebounded off of the other side of the barrier. Quickly Brian turned, his exuberant smile in place as he took a step in the direction of his Audi racer.

He stopped as a bullet punched through his throat.

Brian staggered backward one step to the door, looking around in confused surprise as he tried to figure out what had happened to him. He vaguely heard the door opening behind him, and stumbled around to face Alexei Karamov and his two pack members, now in their human guises. Brian opened his mouth to speak, but his punctured trachea and the blood rapidly filling his windpipe prevented him from doing anything more than gurgling pathetically before he finally dropped lifelessly to the ground.

"That went smoothly," the larger of Alexei's two subordinates stated simply. He folded his muscular arms across his powerful chest as his cold blue eyes appraised the dead mage on the ground.

"Lucky thing about the paradox, I guess," the Shadow Lord's second ally added. The young, attractive woman pushed her shoulder length, raven black hair away from her dark eyes as she took a step forward and kicked the mage lightly.

"That wasn't paradox," Alexei observed, looking up as the sniper appeared from the next warehouse over. The young, brown haired man shouldered his Dragunov sniper rifle with a bit of a smile as he examined his handiwork. "Max, did you see anyone else in the area?"

"No," the sniper answered. "Why?"

"Someone countered Brian's fireball," Alexei stated simply. "Someone wanted to make sure that we won."

________________________________________________________

"You done yet?"

"Yeah," Erica replied, standing up from the body of her latest meal. The two fugitives were on the southern fringes of the Garment District, quickly finding themselves surrounded by more department and fashion stores and fewer prying eyes. Erica dragged the body of her victim, a young man that had mistaken the Ventrue for a prostitute, farther back into the tiny, darkened alley where she had killed him, then joined K.T. at the edge of the alcove. "How are you doing?"

"Found a bum two blocks over while you were busy with that one," the mercenary answered simply. "I'll be fine. You say you know that store?"

"Yeah," Erica replied, looking across the street to the marble façade of a huge department store. "We used to hit this place all the time. Never closes until ten."

"That's great, but do we have a way in?" K.T. asked, glancing around again. It was only a matter of time before the Sabbat realized that the two fugitives had managed to escape the southern end of Manhattan, and the mercenary wanted to get out of the city before his pursuers could widen their search. Erica nodded, and started quickly across the street.

"There's a loading dock on the other side of the building," the Ventrue explained as she hurried back to the shadows. She led the mercenary to a tiny side alley. "They don't have any guards back there, but they do lock the place up pretty tight."

"But we'll still be able to get in," K.T. prompted, following the Loyalist to the rear of the department store.

"I guess we're about to find out," Erica said, jumping up a short set of steps along the side of the loading dock behind the building. A single, unmarked tractor trailer was still parked at the concrete platform, but the area was silent and only lit by a motion sensitive light above the doors. Erica stopped in front of a small, steel door at the top of the steps, then turned back to the Gangrel.

"It's, um, padlocked," the Ventrue observed. "Can you get it open?"

K.T. looked around for a long moment, trying to find anything that he could use to smash off the lock. Very little appeared to be of use, but the mercenary finally picked up an old chunk of cinderblock, and shrugged as he walked up to the door. Erica stood back as K.T. went to work on the lock, and finally broke the obstruction loose after three resounding hits. Quickly the two disappeared inside, making their way through the storage rooms in silence. Finally, creeping through the darkness, K.T. found a door into one of the display rooms.

"The clothes are on the second floor," Erica whispered, looking past the mercenary as he hesitated at the door.

"Alright," K.T. said quietly. "We get some clothes, and we get out. We don't have time for fashion statements."

"Oh, come on," Erica teased. K.T. sighed in resignation, then started into the dark display rooms.

Erica led the way once they reached the sales floor, quickly guiding the mercenary past jewelry stands and the bedding department to a set of escalators near the front of the store. The Ventrue wasted no time in climbing the steps to the second floor, then quickly turned to her right.

"Men's department is that way," Erica called back to K.T. as he reached the second floor. "I'll meet you back here in a couple of minutes."

"Don't get lost," K.T. said. Erica smiled, then turned and disappeared through the racks of women's clothes. K.T. hesitated for only another second before he made his way into the men's department.

The Gangrel moved quickly through the wide department, quickly finding the bureaus of blue jeans in the middle of the floor. Without a second thought K.T. started to rip through the jeans, straining his eyes in the dark to come up with a pair that vaguely fit him. The Gangrel stripped down in the middle of the floor and hastily pulled the jeans on, then turned and rifled a rack of tee shirts. Dressing on the move, K.T. half ran and half stumbled over to a small men's shoe department, and quickly tore through the selection of work boots for a size that would fit him. Finally, K.T. hurried back to the escalators, stopping just long enough to grab a leather jacket from one of the last coat racks.

The mercenary paused as he reached the escalators, freezing in place with the jacket halfway onto his shoulders. From somewhere on the first floor, he was certain that he had heard something, but now everything remained silent. Finally, moving slowly and soundlessly, the Gangrel edged up to the escalators and peered down into the darkness. K.T. waited for what felt like half an hour, straining his eyes and ears to see or hear anything in the darkness below. Finally, deciding that paranoia had gotten the better of him, the mercenary started to turn away and look for Erica.

A beam of light flashed across the bottom of the escalator, lasting for only a second but instantly regaining the mercenary's attention.

"Turn it off, moron!" someone hissed below. K.T. backed up a step and dropped down slightly, trying to keep out of sight as he scanned the second floor for a convenient exit. Erica appeared on his right, stopping at the edge of the aisle and casting a nervous, questioning glance to her ally. K.T. motioned for her to be still as he tried to gauge the location of the people on the first floor. Slowly the mercenary moved to the edge of the aisle, glancing behind him for a convenient hiding place.

He turned back to the escalators in time to see a fedora appear just above the first step. Instinctively the Gangrel dropped back into cover, disappearing only a heartbeat before two pinstriped Nosferatu crept up onto the second floor. Watching from beneath the clothing racks, K.T. could just make out Tony's unlit cigar clenched in his teeth. The two Nosferatu stopped in the center of the aisle for a long moment, until Tony nudged his comrade and pointed for him to search K.T.'s side of the store. The second Nosferatu nodded, and inched his way through the first set of racks as Tony started into the women's department.

Tony's partner started down one row of clothing, poking occasionally with the barrel of his Tommy gun through the racks of shirts and pants. K.T. silently crept through a stand of khakis, putting himself directly behind the Nosferatu. As the deformed gunman continued his search, the mercenary took cover again in the racks that the Sabbat had already searched. With any luck, Tony's accomplice would not be so thorough as to check the same areas twice.

"Paulie!" Tony suddenly hissed from the other side of the store. The Nosferatu's voice was still hoarse, evidence that he had not been able to completely heal the damage K.T. had done during the fight in the _Palla Grande_. The mercenary strained to see through the darkness and the clothing, but could not locate the other Nosferatu. "Get over here!"

"What's up?" Paulie called out, still trying to keep his voice as quiet as possible.

"They're in here somewhere!" Tony whispered. "Someone's been trying on clothes!"

K.T. focused for a moment, and quickly grew his hands into his lethal claws. Paulie was making his way back through the racks, quickening his pace slightly. The mercenary drew himself up slowly into a crouch, ready to spring as soon as the Nosferatu reached him. The attack would have to be swift, silent, and instantly fatal, or Tony and any other Sabbat in the building would be able to instantly pinpoint his location.

The mercenary lunged out suddenly, taking Paulie completely by surprise. The Nosferatu had no time to scream before K.T. ripped into his throat, slashing his windpipe and voice box and clawing his way up into the Nosferatu's skull. Paulie stumbled back, trying to gasp out a cry for help, but his ruined vocal chords allowed little more than a pitiful gurgle. Slowly K.T. lowered the dead gunman to the ground, prying the Tommy gun from his hands.

"Paulie?" Tony called out. K.T. looked up from his dead victim in time to see the other Nosferatu appear at the end of the aisle. "Shit!"

Tony raised his Tommy gun to fire, but Erica suddenly jumped onto him from behind and dragged him to the ground. K.T. rushed forward with all the speed his celerity could muster, trying to reach the pair before Tony could fire, but as they hit the ground a wild burst ripped through the dark, silent department store.

"Second floor! Second floor!" someone shouted from the base of the escalator. K.T. surged forward with a last burst of speed as Tony managed to shake Erica, slamming into the Nosferatu just as he tried to stand. A second volley tore through the men's department as the mercenary shredded Tony's chest with a vicious pair of raking strikes, and the gunman collapsed to the ground with a final scream of pain. Erica raced to K.T.'s side as he picked up Tony's weapon.

"There any other ways out of this store?" the mercenary asked quickly as he handed the Ventrue one of the Tommy guns. Already the Sabbat on the first floor were rushing for the escalators.

"There's another set of escalators at the other end of the floor," Erica replied, pointing to the rear of the building. "But we still have to go through the first floor to get out!"

"Maybe you'd like to stay up here until they corner us," K.T. suggested, turning back to the stairwell with his machinegun at the ready.

"Not really," Erica said, already starting to back down the aisle.

"We got 'em!" one of the Sabbat on the steps shouted jubilantly from the bottom of the escalators. "Over here! Over here!"

"K.T., let's go!" Erica called out as the mercenary inched his way to the railing. 

"I'll give you a few seconds to clear the way," K.T. said without looking back. "Get moving."

Erica hesitated for another second, but K.T. paid her no more attention as he leaned over the railing and fired down on the first floor. Instantly the mercenary was driven back by a hail of gunfire, shattering glass and ricocheting off metal. K.T. dropped back to the racks of clothing as Erica sprinted away down the central aisle, taking aim quickly on the top of the escalators.

K.T. glanced back over his shoulder quickly, but Erica had fortunately heeded his orders and was heading for the rear escalators. The Sabbat on the first floor were howling and shooting blindly as they started up to the second level, but after almost ten seconds none of them had even dared to poke their heads up over the escalators. After another few seconds, even the gunfire began to die down, and the mercenary suddenly realized what was happening.

"Shit!" K.T. snapped, jumping to his feet and sprinting for the other end of the floor. Gunfire suddenly blazed to life at the end of the aisle, chasing Erica back towards the front of the store. K.T. turned and shoved his way through the clothing displays before the Ventrue or her pursuers could notice him, then ducked out of sight until the young Loyalist shot past his position. K.T. counted to two, listening to the triumphant hollering of the Sabbat war party, then sprang back to his feet with his Tommy gun blazing.

The first person in his sights was a girl that could have been no older than sixteen when she was embraced. The Sabbat turned to him just as K.T. opened up, and his first burst literally ripped the girl's head from her shoulders. The mercenary charged forward even as the other five Sabbat tried to react, spinning quickly and loosing fire in every direction. A partial volley of gunfire hit him in one side, dropping the Gangrel to one knee, but K.T. continued to blaze away as he used his blood to strengthen his arms against the Tommy gun's stiff recoil. Two more Sabbat fell under the onslaught of bullets, then a third stumbled as Erica rejoined the fray from behind. Still spinning, K.T. surged back to his feet as he ran out of bullets and charged one of the two remaining Sabbat, simply slamming the butt of the machinegun down on his opponent's face and knocking him senseless. A final burst from Erica caught the last Sabbat square in the back as she turned on the Gangrel, sending her to the floor as K.T. turned back on her. The vampire tried to push herself off of the ground, but the mercenary rammed the butt of his weapon into the back of her head, driving her face back into the tiles. K.T. bounced back to his feet with the woman's AK-47 as Erica came back to his side, ready to open fire on any other Sabbat that had found their way to the second floor.

Instead of Sabbat, four Molotov cocktails arced up over the escalators.

Four fiery explosions lit up the second floor as the cocktails landed among the clothing racks, rapidly igniting a wall of flames between the two fugitives and the front escalators. K.T. turned and raced for the rear of the store as four more fire bombs rose up from the first floor, rapidly turning the front half of the store into a raging conflagration.

"Where the hell's the stairs?" K.T. demanded as he sprinted headlong for the rear of the building.

"Right! Turn right!" Erica shouted, rounding an intersection and bolting for another large stairwell. K.T. kept a pace behind her, ready to push her down the steps if the need arose.

Four more Molotov cocktails exploded in front of them.

"Keep moving! Go!" K.T. ordered, shoving the Ventrue forward as Erica began to slow. The mercenary rapidly took the lead as they covered the last few feet to the escalators, closing his eyes and pushing himself to go even faster as he sprinted through the spreading fires. He had no idea if Erica was behind him or not, but the mercenary forced everything out of his mind as he focused on defeating the _Rötschreck_ before it could paralyze him with fear. The Gangrel half ran and half fell down the escalator, opening up with the AK before he even had a target. More gunfire rose up to greet him, staggering the Gangrel halfway down the steps, but K.T. stubbornly pushed himself forward. One bullet tore through his thigh while four more punched into his chest, but K.T. refused to drop. With a final surge of momentum, the mercenary crashed down onto the first floor, still firing as he skidded along the tiles in front of the staircases. He could hear Erica scream behind him as she was greeted by a new volley of gunfire, but before he could try to raise his rifle to fire again, a black wingtip painfully ground his hand into the floor. K.T. looked up as the gunfire died away, but could barely see Peter around the barrel of the Tommy gun sticking in his face. Behind him, the tattered remains of Cordoba's packs gathered around their victims, grinning maliciously as they raised their weapons for the kill.

"That's it," the Nosferatu snarled. "End game. We win."

K.T. glanced around desperately, trying to find some kind of escape, but the store suddenly exploded into chaos once again. Shotgun and automatic rifle fire ripped through the Sabbat, dropping nearly half of the remaining twelve before they could even react. Peter turned and tried to raise his Tommy gun to counter the new threat, but two incandescent rounds tore into the Nosferatu's chest. Peter stumbled backwards dumbly as he tried to pat out the smoking holes created by the Dragon's Breath shotgun rounds, but K.T. leapt up and slammed a fist home into his face, knocking him to the ground. Two Sabbat tried to run for the doors, but were cut down by a pair of black men wearing long trench coats, their face shrouded by dredlocks as they emptied their AK-47s into their victims. The mercenary turned back and dragged Erica to her feet, but before he could try to escape, the gunfire died away. For a long moment, the store was silent but for the raging fires on the second floor as nine Haitians closed in around the two fugitives.

"Why, Mister Corben," Clairvius said, feigning a mild measure of surprise as he stepped forward. "So much dat we 'ave in common. We even shop in de same stores."

"Nice timing," K.T. said coldly, glancing around at the incapacitated Sabbat.

"You bastard!" Erica suddenly shouted, trying to charge past the mercenary. K.T. grabbed her by the arm before she could reach Clairvius, but the Setite made no attempt to ward off the furious Ventrue. "You set us up! You set us up to die last night!"

"Really, Miss Blackwell," Clairvius countered, a broad smile on his face. "We t'ought you would wait more dan five minutes before you tore de 'otel apart. You moved so quickly, we could 'ardly keep up."

"You lying son of a bitch!" Erica spat, still trying to shake the Gangrel's hold on her arm. K.T. finally dragged her back behind him, and put himself squarely between the Ventrue and the Setite.

"We're out of this city," the mercenary stated. "I'm through playing your stupid games."

"An excellent decision," Clairvius said, his smile growing even wider. "It is not so safe for you 'ere in de city. Would you like me to arrange some transportation?"

"No," K.T. answered coldly, already pushing past the Jamaican. Erica started after the mercenary, but stopped for a moment in front of Clairvius.

"Pray you never see us again," the Loyalist snarled, glaring up at the Setite.

"I don't t'ink dat will be necessary," Clairvius responded with a condescending grin. Erica began to reach forward to slap the Jamaican, but K.T. came back to her side and pulled her away. As the mercenary led his younger companion out through a set of glass doors, Clairvius waved a final farewell, then turned back to make certain that the remnants of Cordoba's packs were truly dead.

___________________________________________________________

Inside of a half hour, the department store was a raging inferno. Fire and police vehicles covered the streets within three blocks of the conflagration, trying more to keep the blaze from spreading to the nearby stores than to extinguish the building itself. The fire that the Sabbat had started to extinguish their prey was now consuming their own bodies, left where they had fallen under the Setites' onslaught.

Clairvius watched the inferno with a faint smile on his face, his mirror shades reflecting the towering flames even as the blaze cast the Jamaican in an almost demonic light. Despite his position on the perimeter of the firefighters, not a single man saw through the cloak of obfuscation that shrouded the Jamaican. As he watched the fire burn, a slight smile came to Clairvius' face.

Over the last two weeks, the Sabbat had gradually pushed itself into a self destructive frenzy, tearing apart their own ranks for signs of a traitor. The increasingly fragile veil that kept the true agenda of the Black Hand secret from its Sabbat masters had suffered yet another blow, bringing the shadowy organization even closer to the light of day. The false communiqué had done its job splendidly, and every faction in the city was busy trying to control the insanity that had nearly torn Manhattan apart. A traitor had been created out of one of the most loyal, if not gullible, members of the Sabbat, a powerful pack leader had been destroyed, and the entire Sabbat population of middle and lower Manhattan had been devastated looking for enemies among their friends. And, to make things even more interesting, the Sabbat's Inquisition would soon make the trip to New York City, inevitably creating even more confusion and strife as it searched for the escaped traitors and examined the upper echelons of the Black Hand in its quest to cleanse the sect of infernalists and conspirators.

Clairvius smiled as he thought of the turmoil to come in the city, his pearly teeth gleaming in the light of the fire. With a last, satisfied nod to the fiery department store, the Setite finally turned and began to walk back to his car as he continued to bask in the success of his and Patrice's ploy. The badly weakened, disorganized Sabbat of Manhattan would offer e plethora of opportunities to a prepared Setite. Over the next few decades, the Jamaican was certain that he would see his influence and corruption spread back into the heart of Manhattan.

As he reached his Cadillac, however, Clairvius' self-absorbed grin disappeared. He had left one of his ghouls by the car, but now his subordinate was nowhere to be found. The Jamaican's hand settled on the stock of his shotgun as he turned slowly, scanning the eerily empty streets in a search for his retainer. Nothing presented itself in the dim alleys or the starkly lit streets. Outside of the now distant sirens and roar of the fire, silence prevailed in the Garment District. Slowly Clairvius turned back to the Cadillac, growing slightly more anxious to leave the fire and Manhattan behind for the day.

He stopped suddenly as Hassan seemingly appeared out of nowhere, standing near the driver side door of the Cadillac with his scimitar in hand. Clairvius' hand tightened around his shotgun, but the Assamite remained still, seemingly waiting for the Setite to make the first move. Clairvius tensed for combat, but the Jamaican hesitated as he considered the prospect of facing one of the deadliest combatants in all of New York City.

"It is obvious dat you didn't want to kill me, or I would already be dead," Clairvius said, concealing the twinge of fear he was feeling. For a long moment the two vampires locked gazes, but still the Assamite said nothing. "What is it you want?"

"He wants nothing more than to kill you," Connor MacIntyre stated, appearing from the shadows of an alley just behind the car. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Den let us talk, and 'ave your friend sheathe 'is blade," Clairvius said, gesturing to the glimmering scimitar in Hassan's hand. "After all, weapons are not required for talk."

"You're in no position to make demands," Connor noted. Clairvius smiled slightly, trying to project an air of confidence to cover his nerves.

"Den what is it you want?" the Jamaican inquired. Connor took a step forward, clasping his hands behind his back.

"The communiqué was a nice touch," the Ventrue stated, allowing a hint of amusement into his voice. "It had us confused for a little bit."

"We t'ought it would," Clairvius stated, allowing himself the faintest hint of appreciation for the compliment. The humor in Connor's expression faded with the Setite's words.

"You realize that you've just done just about everything possible to anger the Hand," the Ventrue stated, walking up to the trunk of the car. "We had a deal. You would not bother us, and we would let you have your little drug empire in Brooklyn. But you just had to have more. You had to cross the river."

"You 'ave to admit, it destroyed de Sabbat's infrastructure in midtown," Clairvius observed, maintaining a faint grin as he tried to project an air of confidence. "You should be 'appy. De Sabbat is no longer as powerful. And dey even knocked down de Camarilla for you."

"Yes, you're absolutely right," Connor said with a slight grin. He adjusted his glasses as Clairvius started to smile as well. "Of course, this means that we'll have to diminish the other powers in the city accordingly, to maintain the balance."

The smile that had been playing across Clairvius' face quickly began to fade away.

" And 'ow will you do dat?" the Setite inquired, keeping his cool despite the implications of Connor's last statement. The Ventrue gestured to Hassan. Clairvius turned, tensing for an attack, but the Assamite simply picked up a large garbage bag and reached inside. He withdrew the heads of both Patrice and one of the Setites' most trusted ghouls.

"For a time, we had considered leaving you here, because you made such a convenient scapegoat," Connor said. Clairvius turned back to him. "But you have proven to me once again that you are far more dangerous than your numbers would indicate. So I think it's time to end the threat, once and for all."

"You risk war with de Setites over dose two," Clairvius warned. "Kill me and more come for your 'ead. Your veil of secrecy will be torn apart, and you will fall.

"War with your kind is a challenge I welcome," Connor said, his smile turning malevolent. "Hassan, behead this fool."

Clairvius turned to ward off the attack, but Hassan was far quicker. The Setite turned in time to see the sweeping slash of the scimitar finish cutting through his neck.

Five minutes later, as the firefighters were just starting to contain the clothing store fire, a large orange and yellow Cadillac blew up only a few blocks to the south.

_________________________________________________________

"What a mess that was."

"Yeah, it was," K.T. agreed absently, slowly turning down through a row of blue painted aluminum containers at a storage facility in Perth Amboy. "No one has a DUI check at midnight on a Sunday."

"Lucky thing he didn't ask for registration," Erica said quietly, rubbing at the dashboard of the black Ford Explorer that they had stolen from a parking lot off of Seventy-eighth Street. She hesitated for a moment, then looked to the mercenary. "Are we ditching this?"

"Someone's going to notice it missing soon enough," K.T. said in reply. "This is too hot to use for long."

"So we're just taking your motorcycle out of town," Erica concluded.

"Yeah," K.T. answered. "If you want, we can get a new set of wheels once we're out of shooting distance."

"It's alright," Erica said. She smiled a little at her companion as she continued. "I've always wanted to ride a motorcycle, anyway. So, where is it?"

"In that container," K.T. answered, pointing to the end of the aisle. The mercenary pulled the Explorer to a stop at the end of the row, and slowly got out of the vehicle. Erica hesitated for a moment, then followed suit.

"I'm going to miss New York," the Ventrue said, looking back to the faint lights of the Outerbridge in the distance. Manhattan was no longer in view, and already the Loyalist was beginning to feel slightly homesick.

"You don't have much of a choice," K.T. stated. Erica turned back to the mercenary as he pulled a key from under the lip of the container door.

"I know," Erica said. "Doesn't mean I won't miss the place, though."

"Maybe we'll get back here some day," K.T. said, though he doubted that the young Ventrue would ever again be welcomed into a Sabbat held city. Erica nodded, the returned to watching the bridge to Staten Island in the distance. K.T. went back to work unlocking the padlock on the door, still uncomfortable with his simple proximity to the city.

Almost as soon as he had put his back to Erica, K.T. heard a startled gasp behind him. The mercenary whirled, his hand going instinctively to where his Ruger would be, but even as he realized that the gun was missing the Gangrel was nearly spun around by an arrow. Rolling with the sudden impact and scrambling to dodge another shot, K.T.'s eyes went wide as he saw Hassan advancing on him with supernatural speed. Erica was still sliding down the hood of the Explorer, another arrow protruding from above her heart, but the Gangrel could not worry about her as the Assamite's scimitar swept out of its sheath in a wide arc for his head.

K.T. ducked and sprang forward, growing his hands into claws as he tried to launch a quick, debilitating strike on Hassan. The mercenary had barely begun his assault when the dominion swerved to his left and turned his blade ninety degrees. K.T. barely managed to avoid losing his arm to the glittering, curved blade as he dropped to the ground and tried to scramble back to his feet, but Hassan would give him no time to recover. In a heartbeat the Assamite had launched two lightning slashes, missing with the first but catching the stumbling Gangrel cleanly with the second just below the neck. Gasping in pain and trying to throw himself out of the way, K.T. turned and bolted into the darkness of the storage facility, desperately trying to outrun his opponent. The mercenary dodged down one row, then back up another, changing to his wolf form to gain as much speed as he could muster. Backtracking and racing through the close aisles, K.T. managed to lose Hassan near the rear of the facility, and quickly tried to find some kind of cover. Finally, the mercenary changed back to his human form and put his back to the last row of storage containers, holding silent and still as he listened for any sign of his enemy.

The storage facility fell eerily quiet as the mercenary waited. Nothing moved inside the ten foot, wire topped fences of the site, and K.T.'s only clear line of sight was to the open field just beyond those fences. Hassan could be anywhere on the property, stalking noiselessly through the shadows and pools of light cast by the stark sodium lamps attached to the storage boxes. Twice the Gangrel thought he heard the Assamite just around the corner of his hiding place, but nothing turned on him after what felt like an eternity of waiting. Time seemed to drag on as the Gangrel waited, his hands still sharpened into talons if he should have to fend off the Assamite a second time.

As he listened for his foe, K.T. frantically tried to rack his brains for an escape. He first thought of climbing the fence, but the rattle of the chain links would instantly alert the dominion to his presence. Next the mercenary considered trying to circle back to the front entrance, but K.T. was certain that Hassan would not leave the only way out of the facility unguarded. To make matters even worse, the last thing the mercenary wanted was to leave Erica behind to the Black Hand's tender mercies. The Gangrel considered trying to make his way back to the girl and forget his bike in favor of the Explorer, but a horrifying image of Hassan waiting just above her on the roof of the bins kept him from returning to the girl.

On top of the bins…

K.T. snapped his head up in time to see the Assamite drop from the roof, the horrifying silence of the discipline of quietus masking the rattle of the aluminum surface. The Gangrel bolted forward, trying to dive away from the Assamite, but Hassan's blade still tore through his back as K.T. rolled across the asphalt. The Gangrel sprang back to his feet, but Hassan had already dropped to the ground, kicking the mercenary's legs out from under him before he could react. K.T. fell flat on his back, knocking his head off of the blacktop, but still managed to roll desperately away from a vicious downward chop of the scimitar that threw chunks of pavement into the air. Hassan kept after his opponent as K.T. spun back to his feet, lashing out at the dominion as he tried to sneak a lucky shot through the Assamite's defenses. K.T. feinted left and then slashed with his right, but Hassan refused to be fooled and slid in underneath the mercenary's arms. K.T. had no time to react as the dominion sprang up inside the Gangrel's arms, slashing up from the ground with his scimitar and tearing into the mercenary from his waist to his chin. K.T. staggered backwards, choking on his own blood, but Hassan refused to give any quarter. Moving as little more than a blur, the dominion once again closed the distance and cut through K.T.'s chest, nearly disemboweling the mercenary. K.T. crashed into the fence and tried to launch himself forward, but Hassan shifted with the momentum and used the Gangrel's burst of speed to his advantage. As K.T. stormed forward, Hassan ripped into the mercenary's throat with his scimitar. K.T. felt the blade tear through his windpipe and throat, but somehow the Assamite was not able to decapitate him in one clean strike. The scimitar rolled out to the side, leaving the spinal cord intact by the slimmest margin, but still the blow finished the mercenary. K.T. staggered one last step and collapsed to the ground, barely shielding his face from the pavement as he hit the ground. Unable to even move and too low on blood to heal himself effectively, the mercenary closed his eyes, waiting for the final cut.

It never came.

The mercenary opened his eyes again as Hassan kicked him onto his back. The dominion stood over him silently, his bloodstained scimitar at the Gangrel's already torn throat, but the Assamite made no move to finish the job. K.T. simply stared up at the other vampire, refusing to beg for mercy.

"Sorry, K.T.," a familiar voice said from just beyond his view. Phillip slowly walked into sight from the end of the aisle, his attention fixed on the pommel of his cane as he searched it for blemishes. "But you understand, of course. Nothing personal. Just business."

"Get it over with," K.T. rasped out, barely managing a voice through the wounds to his throat and the blood in his mouth. "I ain't gonna beg."

"I didn't think so," Phillip said with a smirk as he knelt down over the mercenary. Hassan backed away as the older Gangrel appraised his clanmate for a long moment. Finally, the older man shook his head. "You've definitely seen better days, boy."

"What do you want?" K.T. asked, trying to sound defiant. His voice, however, came out as some kind of wheezing whisper. Phillip, for his part, stood and turned to one of the containers.

"I want to offer you a choice," the elder Gangrel replied, once again examining his cane. "I wish to give you an alternative to death."

"What's that?" K.T. inquired dismally. Phillip finally turned back to him, a schoolteacher's smile slowly spreading across his face.

"What do you know about the Black Hand now?" the older man asked, kneeling down once again next to the mercenary. "What have you learned about the real Black Hand? Take your time answering. Don't be afraid to heal some of that damage to your neck, too. You sound absolutely pitiful."

"Thanks," K.T. grumbled.

"Come now, boy," Phillip prompted. "Consider your answer, but don't take too long. Remember, the sun does come up in four hours."

"You're not just in the Sabbat," K.T. finally said, his voice clearing up as he mended some of the wounds to his tattered throat. "You have agents in the Camarilla, as well. You seem to be playing each side against the other."

"And do you know why?" Phillip queried, once again sounding like a teacher dealing with his slowest student.

"You're fighting for the Ancients," K.T. answered. Phillip smiled.

"Both true and misleading," the elder Gangrel said. "But very close."

"What does that mean?" K.T. asked, frustrated by his clanmate's statement.

"Take a look at the world we live in," Phillip said, making a sweeping gesture to the world beyond the fence. "It was not meant to be this way. Vampire fighting vampire for control of mortal society. The Camarilla ruthlessly controls mortal society to stroke their egos, and the Sabbat wantonly slaughters people off the street to make themselves feel superior. If Caine could see this, and sometimes I think he can, he would kill every last one of us. Gehenna is coming, boy, whether you like it or not. In due time, Caine will break the stranglehold the Camarilla and the Sabbat have inflicted on mortals. We are meant to be hunters, not puppet masters."

"What about the kids?" K.T. asked.

"I beg your pardon?" Phillip inquired, turning back to the mercenary.

"The kids you have Enrathi steal," the mercenary clarified. "If we're supposed to be hunters, why are you stealing kids?"

"Ah, the chatterlings," Phillip said. "The children that the Enrathi's kidnap have the talents, but not the means, to become something in the world. Born to dead end lives, we save them from dying in some back alley of a drug overdose or exposure to the elements. In undeath, we give them the chance they would never have had in life. In exchange, they serve the cause loyally. Jerry is one such example of what we can do with the chaff of human society."

"That's great," K.T. muttered.

"I'm offering you a chance to be saved," Phillip said. "On the night of Gehenna, the Black Hand will be the ones to usher Caine and the Antediluvians back to the world. We are the only ones with any chance of being spared the bloodbath that is to come. It might not be too late to change your ways, boy."

"You sound like a Jehovah's Witness," K.T, said, trying to push himself into a sitting position. Phillip laughed at the statement.

"Very true," Phillip said, finally growing serious again. "But I'm still giving you a choice. Maybe, if you join us, Caine might find you worthy."

"What about Erica?" K.T. asked. Phillip sighed, and shook his head.

"I told you not to grow attached to her," the elder Gangrel reminded the mercenary. "She's not worth the trouble. The Sabbat will hunt her, and the Camarilla will never accept her. And, should she ever speak, too much is at risk. No, I'm afraid that won't work."

"I can keep her quiet," K.T. said. "I can make it work."

"Can you," Phillip said skeptically.

"There are thousands of anarchs in the world," K.T. said. "She can pass for one of them. A year or two of laying low, away from Sabbat territory, and they'll forget her."

"You want her that badly," Phillip assumed. K.T. hesitated for a long moment.

"Yes, I do," he finally answered. Phillip turned away, mulling over the prospect.

"Alright," Phillip said, turning back to the mercenary. "I'll allow this. But know that you'll owe me. This is no mere trifle. Your life is now mine."

"Yeah," K.T. said quietly. "I know."

"Her memories will have to be altered," Phillip added. "She can never know what really happened. Do you understand that?"

"I somehow figured it would come down to that," K.T. said. "We don't have much of a choice though, do we?"

"No, we don't," Phillip agreed with a cold smile. "For now, though, you need blood to heal. Hassan will help you with that."

"Wonderful," K.T. said, looking to the Assamite. Hassan reached down and roughly pulled the mercenary to his feet.

"Other people know about this," K.T. said, looking back to Phillip. The elder Gangrel had started to walk away, but stopped with a chuckle.

"You were the last loose end to secure," Phillip said, looking back. "We dealt with the Setites tonight. Your friend Brian, the mage, was caught in a Lupine raid on one of the Setites' bane corrupted drug factories. Cordoba's packs are roasting in that department store, thanks to a joint effort by you and Clairvius. And Crystal… well, poor Crystal. I can't believe you killed her, K.T."

"I killed her?" K.T. echoed, confused. In response, Hassan drew the mercenary's Ruger from his robes.

"It's amazing what a little bit of obfuscation can do, boy," Phillip said with a nonchalant gesture to the Assamite. "But don't worry. I'm sure the Sabbat will get over it, in time. After all, mercenaries are as trustworthy as the money they're paid. Most bishops understand that."

"So no more loose ends," K.T. finished.

"No more loose ends," Phillip agreed with a nod. "Hassan, why don't you help our young friend see to his wounds?"

"Of course," Hassan said, his voice cold and emotionless. Slowly the Assamite led K.T. off into the darkness, leaving Phillip alone in the storage facility. The elder Gangrel watched the other two vampires disappear for a moment, then made his way back to the Explorer and Erica's immobilized form on the ground.

"She needs to die," Connor MacIntyre's voice said from behind the Gangrel. Phillip regarded the girl for a moment, then looked back over his shoulder.

"It will keep the boy happy," the Gangrel stated. "An incentive to keep him quiet and working for us."

"He is not ready," Connor stated. "You have not observed him for enough time. Twenty-five years is not enough time. Another decade, at the least, was required to make an informed decision."

"The timetable was moved up by our serpentine friends," Phillip countered. He pointed to Erica. "Alter her memories, give her back, and the boy will be loyal."

Connor paused for a long moment, clearly unhappy with the situation, but then smiled faintly as he looked to the young Ventrue.

"Yes, he will be loyal," the lawyer decided, his eyes still on Erica. "Let them complete their blood bond to each other. Then make it clear to your little mercenary that if he steps the wrong way, he's not the only one that will pay for his mistakes."

"I thought we'd be above that," Phillip said darkly, glaring at the lawyer. Connor chuckled slightly as he turned to walk away.

"Always acting the noble archaeologist," the old Ventrue called out behind him. "I'm certain you were not thinking of her potential uses when you promised her to the boy."

Phillip watched his counterpart slowly melt into the darkness, then turned back to Erica's torporous body. For a moment the Gangrel simply stared down at her, then smiled ever so faintly.

"Yes," he said quietly to the comatose vampire. "You'll have your uses."

****

Epilogue

Erica woke with a start as the arrow was pulled out of her heart. For a moment the Ventrue tried to scramble back to her feet, but a hand on her chest held her to the ground. Erica looked up quickly, but found only K.T. kneeling over her with the shaft of the arrow in his hand.

"We're out of New York," the mercenary said simply. "Relax. No one out here wants to kill us yet."

"Out of New York?" Erica repeated, trying to clear her mind as she looked around. They were in a large, mostly empty parking lot along the edge of a deserted highway, sitting under the branches of a large pine. Along the edge of the lot, a few stray snowflakes glittered as they fell past the huge, rectangular lights that illuminated a couple of tractor trailers. "What happened? When did we get here? Where's Hassan?"

"Fortunately, he missed me," K.T. said with a bit of a smile as he helped the Loyalist to sit up against the pine. "He caught you right in the heart, though. I was lucky to get the both of us out of the storage place before he could get a good shot at me. I figure we left him about sixty miles behind us. We're in western New Jersey now, a few miles from Pennsylvania."

"Western New Jersey," Erica repeated, finally regaining her composure. She looked up at K.T. as the mercenary stood. "We're out of New York? For good?"

"For good," K.T. confirmed. Erica dropped her head for a moment.

"I'm going to miss it," the Ventrue said. "That was my home. Are you sure we can't go back?"

"Positive," K.T. said. "We'd better get moving. We still have a few more miles to go before we can stop. I want to make Wind Gap before we take any time to rest."

"K.T., I… what happened?" Erica asked, trying to shake the fog that seemed to have settled inside her head. She remembered Hassan, and she remembered that something had been threatening the Sabbat in New York, but her memories were hazy and indistinct at best. K.T. turned back to her, a bit confused. "We need to see the Cardinal. Something's wrong. We have to go back."

"We saved Polonia's life," K.T. pointed out, kneeling down in front of the Ventrue. "Problem was, the Black Hand is convinced that you and I were helping Graime, instead of trying to stop him. If we even go near the city, the Hand will hunt us down and kill us. Our only chance is to get the hell out of town and wait a while, until it all blows over. But you have to understand, they may never believe you. The Setites set us up to take the fall, and they did a hell of a job."

"It's all over, then," Erica concluded quietly. Of the few clear memories she had, she could clearly recall being forced to work with the Setites to counter Graime. "My whole family. My whole life. Down the drain."

"Well, you've still got me," K.T. said with a touch of humor. He helped the Loyalist to her feet, and started to lead her back to the huge, ancient Indian motorcycle leaning on its kickstand at the curb. "Now come on. We've got a lot of riding to do, and not much time to do it in."

"K.T.," Erica said as the Gangrel got onto his bike. 

"Yeah," the mercenary said, looking back over his shoulder.

"Thanks for taking me out of New York with you," Erica said after a moment's hesitation. "It must have been a bitch trying to ride with me in torpor."

"It wasn't all that hard," K.T. said with a smirk. "Now come on. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

"Where are we headed?" Erica asked, finally straddling the bike behind the Gangrel.

"West," K.T. replied. "We'll find out when we get there."


	9. A Final Word...

Two hundred and two pages, and one hundred thirty thousand and change words of revision later…

I bet you never thought I'd finish, did you? Well, this is it. No more revisions on this story. I'm done pulling out my hair, counting and recounting bullets, nights, blood points, Nosferatu, Panders, Assamites, Shadow Lords, magickal effects, and Toreador sentries. There will be no more scouring my book of New York City sectional maps, at least in regards to this story. I'm done sifting through CDs, looking for just the right mood music to keep my mood focused on a sour mercenary, an irritating know it all, and a score of bad men while I write(and somehow, _Heaven_ by Warrant doesn't seem to be the right choice, but I'm listening to it now, so you can all laugh at me and my haior band fascination). And K.T. and Erica finally got the hell out of New York City.

Looking back to the first draft, I started this project on September 26th, 1997. That's a hell of a long time to work on something that you'll never see one penny for writing. To be honest, I had finished what I thought would be the final draft about two or three years ago, but broke out the script just over a year ago now and did a massive, exhausting line by line rewrite of the entire thing. So, to those of you who actually got this far and finished the story(even though it might have been such a long time since you read the last section that you forgot all the characters and the plot itself), thanks. The reviews do make it worthwhile.

So thanks to Thor, who has reviewed every chapter of every story I have up on the White Wolf section, even though I haven't gotten around to reviewing all(or really, any) of the Werewolf story that I was originally all fired up to read. And, of course, thanks to Norm, who really helped me find a halfway decent writing style and agonized over four or five other drafts of this story(and really, if any of you ever got the chance to read the first draft of this story, you'd have a hard time identifying the two as being drafts of the same plot…). And thanks to anyone that actually reads this, whether or not you leave a review(ego boosts, however, are strongly encouraged…).

So where do Erica and K.T. go after this? Well, I do have the sequel, more or less, to this, but I'd have to go through another agonizing line by line rewrite(but fortunately, I'm only starting with about eighty or ninety pages, instead of an original hundred and thirty five). But if you really want to see them again and can't wait very long, they next appear(as far as the chronology that I pierced together shows) in Nevermore's story _The Final Death_ for a cameo appearance, and again for a little bit in _Gehenna_. Their next big roles come in _Le Bon Temps Roule_, another monstrosity on the order of two hundred or so pages. Still, I enjoyed those stories, and this is a perfect occasion to shamelessly plug myself and my friend.

For those of you that have noticed, everything that I have written on this page can be connected. Nevermore and I have created our own World of Darkness, and reading all the stories may enhance, ever so slightly, your appreciation of each work. Granted, you don't have to read all of the others, or even any of them, but I just throw that idea out in case some of you were wondering what you could possibly read to follow up this beast. Besides, I never miss a chance to shamelessly plug…

"It ain't over til the Big Dog howls."

-Tommy Lee Jones in _The Fugitive_

"AwwOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!"

-Me, in my room


End file.
